High Kings, High Queens, Dragonborn, and other Heroes
by Shattered Shields
Summary: In the land of the Nords, the masters of Windhelm strive against the Empire, and in High Rock, Queen Jeanne of Daggerfall struggles to unite her people against the Imperials. In this new age of strife, heroes rise in High Rock and Skyrim, seeking peace for their countries.
1. The Arrival of Legends

**Welcome to my first story, trust me, it won't be the last. First things first, this is ****_not _****your typical ESS fan fiction. The cities are more realistic, meaning they are much, much bigger than in the game, and the smaller settlements are also larger. There are also several new settlements in Skyrim, and feel free to suggest any ideas you might have. I have also added a host of new characters to fill empty space. **

**I think that is every- Wait! I own nothing but my OCs, enjoy the story!**

**Koorda, Near Helgen.**

Koorda Blackmane had been dreaming of returning to Skyrim ever since she had left when she was only a child, and as she woke with the kiss of her homeland's cold air she thought she might be in a dream.

She should be dead, the Imperials weren't known for sparing rebels. Then she remembered that the damn milk-drinkers preferred to put their rebels on display, and then cut off their heads.

The first thing she registered as her eyes opened was the head of the driver in front of her, and then the sturdy looking Nord sitting across from her. Sitting beside him was a thin man in rags; that probably meant he was thief of some kind. Koorda looked to her right, there was a woman, and a Breton at that, who was awake and looking around with calm eyes. Further down there was another well-built Nord with a gag in his mouth. He looked familiar, but Koorda couldn't place where she had seen him before.

"Hey." She turned her head quickly, black hair flying over her shoulder. The Nord across from her had spoken. "You're finally awake." There was a small smirk on his face, and he immediately reminded Koorda of one of her brothers.

A smile made her lips twitch as she replied. "A bad time to come home eh?"

The Nord nodded grimly. "You were trying the cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." He jerked his head over at the thin man in the rags.

_I was right. _Koorda thought.

"Damn you Stormcloaks, Skyrim was fine until you came along, Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

"So you're a horse thief," Koorda said, making a sound of disgust, "You deserve this."

The Thief glared at her. "The Empire was looking for you Stormcloaks, not for me." He looked in the Breton's direction, "You there, you and me, we shouldn't be here."

The Breton spoke slowly, "You are mistaken, the Stormcloaks and I should not be here, but you should."

The Thief snarled, and Koorda decided that she liked the Breton. The Thief turned to the Nord with the gag, "Guess it's just you and me then."

"Watch your tongue, you speak to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" The Nord leaned forward wrathfully, and Koorda was sure he would have struck the Thief had his hands not been bound.

_Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion._ Koorda remembered grimly. She now knew she sat in the same cart as the most infamous man in Skyrim, the man who had slain the High King, and plunged her beloved home into chaos.

By all rights, she should hate the man, but she didn't. Koorda hated the Mede Empire, and she believed that Skyrim would be better off without it.

"… but if they've captured you, oh Gods, where are they taking us?" Koorda had lost focus while the Thief was on his little tirade.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." The Nord said grimly.

The Thief paled and began calling upon the names of the Divines. Koorda was tempted to correct him, Kyne instead of Kynareth, and the man should be praying to Shor for guidance, not to Akatosh for some divine miracle.

Koorda looked ahead, she could see a wall and a wooden gate, and it opened as the wagon ahead of them neared.

"Hey horse thief, what village are you from?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The Nord said with a wistful tone.

"Rorikstead, I'm from Rorikstead." The Thief stuttered.

They were passing through the gates now, and the townspeople had come out to gawk at them; some threw insults and bits of rubbish dug up from the dirt.  
"Look at him, General Tullius, the military governor, and it looks like the Thalmor are with him, damn Elves, I bet they had something to do with this." The Nord said bitterly.

Hate broiled in Koorda as she stared at those damn High Elves. They were invaders, scum, and Koorda would kill them without a second thought if she could. She wasn't the only one, the Breton was actually shaking with barely contained rage, and her fists were clenched. If looks could kill, then those Thalmor would be ash, and suddenly there was an awful sound. The two Thalmor and Tullius were thrown from their horses as they bucked wildly.

A storm atronach emerged from the purple gate that had spawned it, and started dancing around the three as steel arrows started to fly. There were shouts of alarm, as one of the Thalmor was struck dead by a bolt of lightning. Tullius and the other Thalmor dove for cover, with Tullius making exaggerated movements towards the attacking Atronach. The volume of arrows increased, and Koorda noticed a shield wall creeping towards the creature from Oblivion. The prisoner wagons kept moving forward through the town.

Koorda nudged the Breton, "Good work."

The Breton nodded satisfactorily as she closed her hand, and the purple light in it faded. The Atronach was eventually slain, and the Breton winced when she heard the electrical explosion.

The wagons came to a stop at a wall of stone.

"Why are we stopping?" The Thief asked fearfully.

"Why do you think, end of the line."

Everyone stood; Ulfric stepped off first, followed by the Breton, then Koorda, then the Thief.

"Step towards the block as we call your name, one at a time!" The Imperial captain shouted.

The Nord sighed as he stepped down from the cart, "Empire loves their damn lists."

The Imperial started reading off the names. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

"It has been a honor, Jarl Ulfric!"

The Breton stepped forward without being asked, and Koorda was admiring her bold move when she said her name. "Jeyera Gaelin."

There was a painful silence, and Koorda felt as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Jeyera Gaelin was a legend; she was a rebel from High Rock who was known for her daring and effective strikes against both the Empire and the Thalmor. She had killed hundreds of Imperials and many Thalmor in her traps and operations. The Empire had issued a kill on sight order for her, and the Thalmor had hunted her for years without success.

Now she stood, fearlessly, in the Empire's paws. The Imperials moved fast, one drew his sword, and the Captain hit Jeyera so hard that she fell to her knees, spitting out blood.

"You killed my brother you witch!" The Captain hissed.

"Funny, I don't remember killing an Imperial that was as ugly as you." Jeyera snarled.

The Captain struck Jeyera again, this time with a kick to the face that nearly knocked the Breton unconscious. Koorda watched as Jeyera laughed weakly, and healed her contusions with a spell.

"You're going to have to try harder than that." Jeyera said, smiling contemptuously at the Imperials as she stood.

"Just get to the block, and don't try anything, there's at least a dozen bows trained on your back." The Captain growled.

Jeyera laughed scornfully and walked towards the block.

"Ralof of Riverwood," The Nord who had sat across from Koorda walked away.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," The Thief proceeded to babble something and then bolt. Koorda watched, slightly amused, as Lokir was shot down.

"And now who are you?" The Imperial asked.

"Koorda Blackmane." She replied, looking for a reaction, the name Blackmane was well known in Skyrim.

"A Blackmane? Captain, shouldn't we release her? She's not the list." The Imperial with the parchment said.

_Please_.

"It makes no difference, she goes to the block."

_Damn._

"By your orders Captain."

Koorda followed the captain to the block, where Tullius was already taunting Ulfric; Koorda then watched as the priest of Arkay's rites were interrupted by the Stormcloak, who was promptly decapitated.

And then they were calling her name.

There were murmurs and curious glances; the name Blackmane was recognized by most of the Nords there. Like it made any difference, Koorda could feel her throat closing up as she realized she would never see her siblings again, Alrik, Brynja, Rokar, Valkar, Gala. She would never see Haljnar, her uncle in Riften, or her esteemed godfather.

She practically fell onto the block, and she accepted her fate.

_I hope those heroes in Sovngarde have some mead cold for me when I get there._

There was a roar, and then Koorda saw something that looked like a bird, but was definitely not. The thing was massive, and her eyes widened when it landed on the tower. Voices clamored for her attention, but she only heard one.

"Dragon!"

**Jeyera Gaelin, Helgen**

Jeyera's first thought when she saw the dragon was: _Akatosh?_

Then she realized there was no way she would ever be that lucky.

The Dragon was big, black, and mean. Jeyera stared for what seemed like the longest time, but it was only a moment, since Akatosh was doing her a _huge_ favor by slowing down time when she was practically wetting herself.

The foul thing roared, and pure energy blasted through the area, forcing Jeyera to her knees, and when she looked up, she had to dive out of the way of a flaming rock that had been heading right for her.

Jeyera looked around wildly, the Imperials had bows pointed at the sky, the Stormcloaks had scattered, and Jeyera could see Ralof speaking to the Blackmane who lay upon the ground. As the Breton watched, the Blackmane rose and ran towards a tower with Ralof by her side. Jeyera bolted forward, anything was better than the open ground, and that tower was looking pretty damn good.

She managed to hurl herself into the tower just as the door closed.

"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing!? Could the legends be true?" Ralof asked breathlessly.

Ulfric replied as Jeyera found a sharp rock and began cutting the ropes that kept her hands bound, "Legends don't burn down villages." He said in his typically deep, rhythmic voice.

_Well, that's why so many follow him, he has a good voice, and he knows how to use it. _Jeyera thought. _No doubt he used it extensively in his harping about Talos._

She sliced through the last of her bonds and moved to an injured Stormcloak, a healing spell in both her hands, she let the magic flow onto the Nord who lay wincing on her side.

The wounded woman sighed in relief as she felt her wounds close, and she sat up weakly. The Stormcloak beside her lifted his comrade, and gave a nod to Jeyera, respect showing in his eyes.

Jeyera nodded back and quickly moved to the other injured Stormcloak, applying the same treatment, the Stormcloak was able to rise on his own power, as his wounds had not been as grave.

"You ready to leave, Gaelin?"

Jeyera turned and found herself face to face with Ulfric, "Yes, I suppose I am." She answered, studying his expression carefully.

Ulfric turned and moved up the tower stairs, Jeyera followed, with the three Stormcloaks trailing. They came to a hole in the stonework, just in time to see Ralof jump.

Jeyera ran to the lip of the stonework and saw as Ralof rolled across the wood of what used to be an inn's second floor. Jeyera shrugged and jumped, hitting the woodwork and rolling to break her fall. Of course, she rolled too far and plunged right through a hole burned through the wood.

Ralof strode over quickly and pulled her upright. They both looked out through the chaos, and Ralof took off without a word. Jeyera followed, a Conjured Blade now in her hand.

**Koorda, Helgen**

"This way prisoner!"

Koorda was going to hurt him if he didn't stop calling her "prisoner." She did have a name, she had told it to his face.

They hurtled through the burning town of Helgen, running past the dead and the dying, the Dragon was tearing the town apart, and the entire scene was reminding Koorda of the stories of Kvatch during the Oblivion Crisis.

They continued on, the Dragon still swooping overhead, the Legion still fighting hard, but Koorda was starting to think that the Legion might not have the strength this time.

The Keep finally came into view, and so did something else, or rather, someone.

"Ralof, you damn traitor! Out of my way!"

"We're escaping Hadvar, you're not stopping us this time!"

The Breton, Jeyera, was beside the armed Ralof.

"Fine, I hope that Dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Hadvar ran forward while Ralof and Jeyera ran towards another door. Koorda quickly followed Ralof through the door, and inside the Keep.

All three stopped to catch their breath, and it was Koorda who spoke first.

"Where is Jarl Ulfric?"

Ralof straightened. "Don't worry, it would take more than a Dragon to stop Ulfric Stormcloak."

"Blackmane, give me your bonds." Jeyera said.

Koorda extended her hands, and Gaelin sliced through the cords with her blade from Oblivion. "You can call me Koorda you know."

Jeyera shrugged. "I know that, but what I don't know, is why the Blackmanes are returning to Skyrim in a sensitive time such as this one."

Tension, thick and ugly, rose immediately.

"What _I_ want to know," Koorda started, ignoring Jeyera's question, "Is why a rebel from High Rock is in Skyrim, and _Helgen _at that."

"Hey, ease up, both of you," Ralof interrupted, his was voice like steel, "We can worry about our stories later," He said with finality, holding some leathers out to both women.

"Of course," Jeyera said, her eyes still on Koorda.

The Blackmane didn't know what to think about her. Why would a rebel from High Rock be in Skyrim? It made no sense, unless she was here to ensure that the Stormcloaks won the war, and thus cut the supply lines to the Imperial forces in High Rock.

Yes, that made the most sense, but even if that was the objective, why deploy Gaelin in Cyrodiil and have her move north from there? Why not try to strike at Solitude and kill General Tullius? Koorda felt she knew the answer to that. The rebellion in High Rock drew its strength from the sudden (and surprising) unity of the Bretons under Queen Jeanne of Daggerfall, and so the center of the rebellion was far from the Skyrim-High Rock border and thus far from Solitude. That could easily be why Gaelin hadn't been sent to kill Tullius, the Breton Revolutionaries must not have had the strength to get Gaelin past Farrun or even Wayrest.

Not only that, but if Tullius had been killed, then the Empire would've simply posted another general in Skyrim and nothing would've been achieved. The only real way to cut off the Imperial supply lines to High Rock would be if Skyrim became independent.

That still didn't explain how she had been captured, how could the best agent in all of High Rock fall victim to an Imperial ambush? That, Koorda sensed, was the biggest mystery of all.

**So yes, there is war in High Rock as well as Skyrim, and Koorda nearly died. You'll see her brothers and sisters in the next chapter. And yes, Blackmane, I know, it's not very original or creative, but don't flack me. That name just felt right.**


	2. Storms Gather

**Brynja, Near Riverwood**

"We need to find her."

"Brynja, we can't just run back south, not after we've already come so far."

"Alrik, I am not going to let Koorda get out of trouble on her own."

"Brynja, we can't stay here much longer, we have to get to Riften."

Brynja scowled, glaring at her brother. "I am _not_ losing Koorda."

Alrik sighed, "Brynja, I want her safe as much as you do, but we cannot go back south, Koorda will be fine."

"And what if she's not?" Brynja replied testily, "I am not abandoning her Alrik!"

Brynja, sister (and twin) of Koorda, was frustrated. No one in her family was taking her seriously, Alrik talked to her as if she was a child, which was stupid, considering she already had 23 winters behind her. Valkar was only offering useless comfort, Rokar said little, and Gala only listed the reasons as to why Koorda couldn't possibly be dead.

Brynja surveyed her family; Alrik was the eldest, and the tallest. His hair was as black as a shadow, and his beard was thick. He was built like most Nords, stocky and muscular. Rokar was the fourthborn, and he was even larger in build than Alrik was. He was the fiercest fighter of them all. Valkar, the fifthborn, was not as stocky as Rokar or Alrik. He was leaner and kept his hair short and his beard trimmed, whereas his brothers let their beards grow long. Gala, the youngest, had chunks of gold in her black hair that caught the sunlight like silver in water, and she possessed the sharpest wit.

"Koorda is tough Brynja, she can take whatever is thrown at her." Valkar said, striding past her with the woodcutter's axe in hand.

"There's no way she's stronger than me, I bested her once in that fistfight we had a couple years ago." Rokar boasted lightheartedly from across the camp.

"I remember Rokar, I also remember that a month later, she drove you into the dust." Gala said as she carefully repaired the fletching of one of her precious arrows.

Rokar put on a mock expression of hurt, "That was a one time loss!"

Gala shook her head in a negative gesture, "It was several times Ro, and I don't recall you ever truly beating her in anything."

"He could probably sing better than her, remember how she wanted to be a bard when she was younger?" Alrik asked, a smile making his lips twitch.

Brynja laughed, "By Shor, she was terrible! Remember how we nearly smothered her with pillows?"

"I remember only because you actually drew the entire thing up Brynja, plan and everything." Valkar said as he split a log in two, "You were quite obsessed with shutting her up."

"I had to share a _bed _with her _singing_ the entire night you ass!"

Laughter rung through the small camp; however, it didn't last, and soon all were grim again. There was silence for a while, but then there was a rustling in the growth that surrounded their tents. All were tense until they heard a familiar three note whistle.

Axelia, the slim, blonde, and beautiful housecarl of Alrik, trudged into the camp, heading straight for Alrik with a letter in her hand; he stared at the piece of paper like it was something venomous, "Who is it from?"

Axelia brushed her fair hair out of her face and sat down beside her Thane, "It's from Haljnar, and its not good news."

Alrik read quietly, and then swore violently.

"What is it?" Brynja asked, leaning forward.

Her brother leaned back, rubbing his temples, "Maven knows we're coming to Riften."

"That will complicate things," Gala growled, sliding her fixed arrow back into her quiver, "I still say we just kill the damn woman and give the Meadery to the Snow-Shods."

"The Black-Briars are connected to the Dark Brotherhood, the Thieves Guild, and the Imperials." Valkar replied, "Taking the Black-Briars down won't be that simple."

"Then we destroy the Brotherhood, crush the Guild, and win the war for the Stormcloaks." Rokar said as he glided a whetstone across the blade of his Nordic battleaxe, "It's that easy."

Gala glared at Rokar, "You probably just named the three most impossible tasks in all of Skyrim."

"Have you forgotten who you are!?" Axelia exclaimed, rising quickly, "You are a Blackmane, the clan that once had a man in Solitude as High King, and the clan that tamed the Guild and were the champions of the Rift."

Alrik rose as well, "All of you know your oaths, before the Great War killed our father and before the Thalmor found our mother, we swore before them that one day the Blackmanes would be great again, that one day we would have the Rift in the palms of our hands."

There was a sobered silence, and then Gala stood slowly, fire in her eyes, "I call the Brotherhood, those murder loving bastards have it coming."

"I'll win the war, that sounds like more fun." Rokar said with a smile.

Alrik nodded, then looked over to Valkar, who was grinning.

"I'll cripple the Black-Briars economically, and then turn the Rift into the most prosperous province in Skyrim." Valkar said evenly, still grinning widely.

"And I'll make sure the Guild never recovers from the string of bad luck its been having." Alrik said with an evil smile plastered on his face, "Get ready, we move north into Riverwood in an hour."

As the others talked amongst the other, Brynja moved towards Alrik, "Koorda has a role to play as well, or do you forget the blessing she received?"

"Don't worry Brynja, nothing could kill Koorda," Axelia said confidently, although she did look worried.

"I have not forgotten the word of our mother Brynja, I know that Koorda has the most important duty of us all," Alrik said, looking towards the distance.

"And if anybody could rise to such a task, it would be her," Axelia said, grinning.

Axelia was always one to put in a happy word, her blue eyes twinkling as she did so. Her hair was a sharp contrast to Alrik's, with hers being a bright gold with more than a hint of fire. Axelia was just as tall as Alrik, and just as skilled as him in the way of weapons; she wielded an axe and shield. She was as old as Alrik as well, and had been faithfully serving the Blackmane clan for years. Brynja counted her as one of the family, but Axelia would always consider herself as just a housecarl.

Brynja suddenly grinned wickedly, looking slyly at Alrik, who was already wrapped up in a conversation with his faithful housecarl. There was _definitely _a way to welcome Axelia into the family, but for that Alrik would need an Amulet of Mara.

Thankfully, they were heading home, to Riften.

**Koorda, Southern Whiterun Hold**

Koorda had always loved the woods, probably because of her upbringing in the Autumnal Forests of the Rift. The little group of Ralof, Jeyera, and Koorda had managed to escape from Helgen, and were now en route to Riverwood. The road was bumpy, and uneven, and she stumbled. Jeyera caught her gracefully, and Koorda muttered her thanks.

Now that they had slowed down, Koorda actually had a chance to study the Breton, black hair, dark blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. She was rather petit, like all Bretons, but her physique hinted that she was much stronger than she let most people believe.

Jeyera was stunningly beautiful, but very dangerous as well.

The Breton had managed to recover her equipment in Helgen. She now wore armor that seemed to be a mix of metal and padded leather, a shield on her back, and she drew an enchanted steel blade forth when sword work was necessary. She was skilled, having practically decapitated the wolves that dared to attack the little group.

There was one thing that Koorda wanted to know.

"Gaelin?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are the Bretons rebelling?"

"Same reason the Nords are, because we're tired of the Empire shoving their damn culture and laws in our faces, because we want to worship our Pantheon, and no one else's, because the Mede Dynasty is weak and unfit to ever rule over High Rock."

Koorda looked at Jeyera with new eyes, "So I trust Queen Jeanne is a person of virtue?"

"She is, and I fight for her and her only," Jeyera replied, a strange expression on her face, "There is no other royal I would serve."

That was interesting, the news of the insurrection in High Rock had gained the same amount of notoriety as the war in Skyrim, but unlike the situation in Skyrim, almost none in the Empire had any idea was being fought about in High Rock.

"I wish I could say the same for Ulfric Stormcloak," Koorda said darkly,

"You do not trust him?" Jeyera asked, eyebrow raised,

"Not one bit after some of the things I've heard about him, he's power hungry, has to be," Koorda said scornfully,

"There may be another reason he killed the High King," Jeyera proposed slowly, though she didn't look confident,

"Come on Jeyera, you've heard the man, all he talks about is Talos, or how the Empire eats babies," Koorda scoffed, running her thumb over the hilt of her borrowed sword in a habitual fashion,

"So you're saying he's a rabble-rouser, a firebrand,"

"Exactly, did you ever hear stories about the Markarth incident?"

"Yes," Her voice was solemn,

"He should never be High King," Koorda growled,

"What? You're saying you would rather see the Imperials win?" Jeyera retorted, her mask shattering as she looked at Koorda with anger etched in every line of her face,

"No, I am definitely not suggesting such a thing, I would just rather Ulfric's brother become High King," Koorda replied quickly, looking faintly surprised at the sudden surge of emotion from the stoic Breton.

"You mean Juric, the Stormcloaks' best strategist and head of all Stormcloak armies?"

"The one and only, he's far better suited to be High King than his brother," Koorda said.

"How so?" Jeyera asked, curiosity evident in her voice.

"He's not the radical his brother is, he's far less bloodthirsty, and he wants the Empire gone for the right reasons," Koorda said, approval present in her voice.

"Right reasons?" Jeyera queried, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"He isn't fighting so that he can seize power, he's fighting so that Skyrim can be the way it was meant to be."

"Then I suppose we agree that the Mede dynasty is unworthy."

"Aye that we do."

**Jeyera, Southern Whiterun Hold**

The Blackmane was puzzling Jeyera. Why would her family return to Skyrim? It had to be related to the war, or the Thalmor. It was known that there was a Blackmane in Riften, so could the rest of the clan simply be relocating themselves back to their ancestral home?

That had to be it; there was no other plausible reason for the Blackmane Clan to return to Skyrim. Now Jeyera had to determine if the returning Blackmanes were going to be a problem. It wasn't likely, judging by Koorda's comments on the Mede Dynasty, but Jeyera had to be sure.

"Koorda?"

"Yes?"

"Would you call your family friends of the Imperials?"

"My father died in the Great War, and my mother was killed by the Thalmor for worshiping Shor, both were killed by the damn Aldmeri Dominion, the same Dominion that the Empire bows to," Koorda growled, her voice tight, "So no, neither I nor my family supports the weak Empire that pretends to rule over us."

Jeyera nodded, "Good, that means you won't interfere."

"With what could I possibly interfere with?"

"My mission from Queen Jeanne herself."

"Oh? And what mission was that?"

"To ensure that Skyrim becomes independent."

"And thus cut off the Imperial supply lines to Farrun, and by extension, Wayrest."

Jeyera was only mildly surprised; one look at Koorda Blackmane and Jeyera had quickly deduced that the woman was dangerous. She was tall and had a warrior's build, with long black hair and deep green eyes. However, there was more than that to her, Koorda had a certain presence about her, an aura that grabbed your attention and made you give her a second look. It was the aura of a strong leader. Her bladework was even more impressive; whether with spear or sword, Koorda always seemed to best her opponents.

She definitely warranted watching, as Jeyera felt that this woman would have serious impacts on Skyrim in the coming time.

**Juric Stormcloak, The Hjaalmarch-Pale Border**

"Lord Juric! The Imperials are moving their archers forward!" The runner exclaimed in the thick Nordic accent nearly all of the soldiers shared.

"Get some of Horec's men on their flanks, make sure that our archers move forward so that the Imperials don't smell Horec's soldiers before it's too late," Juric ordered, staring at the Legion formations across the bluffs.

Ever since Whiterun had declared itself neutral, these series of hills and bluffs at the border between Imperial Hjaalmarch and the Stormcloak-aligned Pale had been a constant battlefield, with the Pale and Hjaalmarch being crucial to both sides. Hjaalmarch would be perfect for a siege of Solitude, and the eastbound road of the Pale led straight to Windhelm. Of course, they would have to fight through Dunstad first, and Juric knew that Tsannar War-Arm and his son would never yield the fortresses of the Pass or Heljarchen. That meant the only way the Imperials could attack Windhelm directly would be to follow the road by coming north from Whiterun Hold, which claimed to be neutral. Even that wouldn't work; such an offensive would be forced to leave its supply lines dangerously close to Dunstad.

Whiterun, if pressed, would probably go straight over to the Imperials, and that would definitely make things more complicated. The city would need to be taken, as the Hold was vital to the fate of the war. It was the center, and from there the Stormcloaks could strike virtually anywhere in Skyrim. Balgruuf the Greater was no weak-willed man either, and Juric had no doubt that Balgruuf would choose to fight if Ulfric forced him into a corner.

Ulfric… Juric hardly even knew his brother anymore, the old Ulfric wouldn't be harping about Talos, the old Ulfric wouldn't be ignoring the people in his own city, and the old Ulfric wouldn't have slain High King Torryg and sought the throne for himself. He had been different ever since he had come home from the Great War so long ago.

Juric wanted Skyrim to be free, simply because he tired of the Empire's damnable influence on Skyrim, tired of them forcing their religion and their culture on the Nords who already had their traditions, their own culture.

The Mede dynasty wasn't worthy to rule over Skyrim; they were weak, powerless to stop an army of Elves from taking the Imperial City and ransacking it. The Septims had been the only ones worthy of ever holding any kind of authority over the Nords, and they were gone. The last of their line had perished when the Oblivion Crisis had ended.

Juric snorted, an Imperial or an Elf would hardly believe he was so knowledgeable. They all thought Nords were barbarians who still squatted in the snow and rubbed sticks together.

What a base lie! The Nords were a great people, with tradition, with history, with the grandest culture in Tamriel. They had endured ever since they had come from Atmora, they had cast the Dragons down, they had established a kingdom in the face of multiple adversities, they had aided Alessia in establishing the First Empire, which their traditions had helped build, they had helped the Empire stretch across Tamriel, and it had been a Nord, Tiber Septim, who revitalized an old and decaying Empire, extending its rule over all of Tamriel. They had been the ones to come to the aid of the Imperial City during the Great War; they had helped rescue the Mede Dynasty from utter destruction. All of that grand history, and now they sat here, struggling against circumstances caused directly by the damned Elves.

Juric was no fool, he knew the White-Gold Concordat had been necessary, and he could care less about Talos. He was only one god in their pantheon. How could so many of his people forget about Kyne or Tsun?

Above all, what really infuriated him was the Dominion walking all over the Empire his ancestors had fought for.

If the Empire was worthy, they wouldn't stand for it, if the Empire was worthy, this rebellion wouldn't still be in existence, if the Empire was worthy, Windhelm would be flying Imperial colors and Juric, his brother, and their supporters, would all be dead.

The Stormcloak Rebellion was only the first step, Juric had a vision for the future of Men, and he was determined to make that a reality.

**Koorda, south of Riverwood**

"I'm glad you two decided to come with me, we're almost to Riverwood," Ralof said as they continued to stride through the woods.

"I would've thought you would pick the Mage Stone Jeyera," Koorda said, looking over at the Breton.

They had come across the Guardian Stones on the road, and they had both picked the Warrior Stone, much to Koorda's surprise.

"You think that just because I'm a Breton, that I'm a mage," Jeyera said touchily, "Are you a barbarian just because you're a Nord?"

Koorda felt herself getting defensive, "No, Nords are not that one-dimensional."

"And neither are Bretons," Jeyera replied stormily.

Koorda suddenly felt repentant, "I'm sorry, I never should have assumed."

"I'm not offended, many Bretons are mages anyway," Jeyera said, looking calm and composed as always.

"But not all," Koorda said, watching Jeyera curiously.

"No, not all, a fair bunch of us are warriors or battlemages," She replied.

Koorda rubbed her chin with a calloused hand, "Hmm, that could create a very strong army."

"And an army of Nords is an intimidating sight as well, your people are highly skilled in the martial arts," Jeyera replied, her voice warm.

"Aye, and we have proud history as well," Koorda said with more than a hint of pride, "But I hold your people in high esteem Gaelin, I know how powerful magic can be."

"And a well-aimed arrow or blade can strike the best mage down," Jeyera replied, "Knowledge of the martial arts can often exceed the value of magic, which is why I hold your people in high esteem as well."

The two women looked at each other, each suddenly seeing the other as what they both were, two highly skilled warriors with knowledge that exceeded their own familiarity with their styles of combat. Respect glimmered in both of their eyes, and Koorda was the first to extend her hand. Jeyera grinned widely and took the proffered hand, shaking firmly.

They didn't say anything as they continued to follow Ralof down the road; words were not needed for women who understood each other as much as they did.

"Ah, here we are," Ralof said as he peered down the road.

Riverwood's walls seem to lurch a bit to the sides, and Koorda could see no guards patrolling the ramparts. Folk were on their porches, chatting idly, a messenger ran through the streets and took a sharp right, going towards what looked like a large lumber mill. Everything looked relatively normal; no signs of alarm, and the entire town seemed laid back and secure. Ralof seemed to relax as they passed through the gate.

"A dragon! I saw a dragon!"

Koorda looked to her right, seeing an old woman standing rigid on her porch, a young Nord, Koorda assumed he was her son, listened to her, exasperated.

"What? What is it now mother?" The young man said with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"A Dragon! It flew right over the barrow!" The old woman exclaimed.

The young man looked fairly exhausted of his mother's ravings, but his expression changed when his eyes glided over the two fair women walking through the gates. Koorda snorted loudly, pointedly looking away from the "charming" smile the young Nord was giving them.

"Tell me when he stops staring," Jeyera drawled, her voice vibrating with irritation.

"Great, now his eyes are going to be glued to our hips," Koorda growled as they passed him.

"Let him look, not like we'll give him anything for it," Jeyera replied.

The two women followed Ralof across rough wooden planks, and into a small area dominated by a mill. Ralof paused briefly, seeing a slim woman with blonde hair reaching down to her shoulders.

"Gerdur!"

**Alrik, Riverwood**

"Alrik, when are we leaving for Whiterun?"

"Soon, I have no wish to linger in Riverwood, pleasant a place it may be."

"And what of Koorda?"

"Brynja…"

"I will go southward if I must."

"Brynja, she's alive, and she'll either meet us in Whiterun or in Riften."

Brynja sighed, clutching at her Nordic carved armor anxiously, "I just want her to be with all of us again."

"So do I Brynja, so do I," Alrik said.

The group was camped just to the north of Riverwood, and from there they planned to move to Whiterun next, where they would visit one of their father's closest friends, Kodlak Whitemane. Brynja and the others were eager to see the Harbinger again, as it had been a long time.

Alrik, however, held no such feelings. He, as the firstborn son, was considered the leader of his clan. Usually, the eldest in his family would lead the clan, but Haljnar had refused the honor for his own reasons. Being the leader of a clan as prestigious as the Blackmanes was no lighthearted matter, and Alrik feared his father's most renowned friend would see him as unfit for such a position, or that Kodlak would be disappointed at the man Alrik had become.

It was a senseless thing to think about, but the fear was still there. He adjusted the battle-axe strapped to his back, and stood as he prepared to walk northward.

Brynja walked past him again, muttering to herself. Alrik felt a pang of sympathy for his sister. She was closer to Koorda than any of them, and wondering what had happened to her twin had to be driving her mad.

Of them all, the one that got the most second looks was Brynja. She was simply beautiful, with her azure eyes, fair skin, and shining black hair that fell to her shoulders. Alrik would be worried about persistent suitors if she didn't chase them off herself. Brynja was the ablest of them all in swordplay, routinely besting himself, Rokar, and Koorda whenever they sparred.

Alrik stopped in the middle of his stride, and held up a hand. His siblings and Axelia halted, all listening to the two voices coming up the road.

"So why are we going to warn the Jarl of Whiterun? I wasn't really paying attention."

"Riverwood is defenseless, I don't know how bandits haven't tried to ransack the place yet. Whiterun has to send soldiers southward."

Brynja stiffened, and she started to approach the edge of the road.

"Brynja! We don't know who that is!" Valkar hissed. Gala moved forward, an arrow already nocked on the string of her bow.

Brynja ignored him, and then she let out a cry of joy that made all jump in surprise.

"Koorda!"

The rest of the Blackmanes surged forward to see Brynja embracing Koorda on the road. A Breton stood beside Koorda, looking upon the onrushing Blackmanes with complete bewilderment. Koorda was grinning widely, speaking to Brynja in a rushed fashion. Her delighted eyes swept over her siblings as they crowded around her, asking questions in a rush.

Koorda held up a hand, stopping the flow of inquiries, "One at a time! I can't listen to all of you at once."

Alrik had several questions for her, first of all, why was she in Stormcloak leathers? Who was the Breton? Why was she so late in finding them?

"Where have you been? Did you get waylaid in Helgen?" Brynja asked, clutching to her twin anxiously.

Koorda exchanged a glance with the Breton, and then turned back to her family, "We were caught by an Imperial ambush at the border and taken to Helgen to be executed."

"What? That makes no sense, surely they would've released you once they realized who you were," Brynja said, her voice heated and tight.

"That didn't matter to them," Koorda replied, sounding scornful.

"Damn Imperials," Rokar growled.

"So how did you get out? Did the Stormcloaks orchestrate a rescue?" Gala asked, leaning forward intently.

Again, Koorda exchanged a glance with the Breton; "The Imperials were distracted with a Dragon at that time."

There was silence for a while. Alrik felt like somebody had hit him in the stomach; he knew when Koorda was joking, and she definitely wasn't jesting now.

"A… Dragon?" Brynja asked, incredulous, "But that's impossible!"

"The Dragons are dead! They were killed off thousands of years ago," Gala added, sounding astonished.

"I don't know how its possible, but a Dragon showed up and burnt Helgen to the ground," Koorda said, her expression grim.

"It had to have been some sort of trick, a giant mirage formed by magic," Gala said, clearly struggling to come to terms with what Koorda had said.

"Magic cannot make fire fall from the sky," The Breton said.

"And who might you be, if I may be so bold," Alrik said as he moved forward a bit to better address the stranger.

"My name is Jeyera Gaelin," She said, her tone clearly indicating she didn't care what they might think of her.

Another blow to the gut, why in the world would _Gaelin_ be here? It made no sense.

"But, you're supposed to be in High Rock," Gala said, stunned at the turn of events.

"I'm _supposed _to be, but I am not," Jeyera replied, her face betraying nothing.

"So you're here undercover, for what purpose?" Gala asked, her eyes trained on Jeyera.

"To ensure the Stormcloaks win the war," The Breton answered. She smiled as she saw realization dawn on all of the Blackmanes' faces.

"And let me guess, as soon as the supply lines are cut and the Breton revolution finished, you arrange an alliance between Skyrim and High Rock," Gala said without a stumble or second guess.

Alrik grinned; Gala had always been the best at discerning the intentions of, well, anybody. Jeyera looked surprised as well; clearly she hadn't suspected that that part of her mission would be uncovered so quickly, "Well then!" She exclaimed, "I can see that this family knows of much more than steel!"

_Koorda must have told her of all the skilled smiths that have been in our family, _Alrik mused.

All the Blackmanes smiled in return and muttered thanks. Alrik stepped forward, "So where is your destination?"

Jeyera looked over at Koorda, "Whiterun for now, but afterwards I go to Windhelm to see Ulfric, or Juric, whichever one."

Alrik grimaced, "I would rather meet with Juric, he's rumored to be much more even-headed than his brother."

Jeyera shrugged, "As long as I get an audience with either of them, I'm happy," She suddenly looked curious, "And where would you be going?"

"Back home, to Riften, but we're stopping by Whiterun first, would you like to tag along?" Alrik asked; he wanted to learn more about the turmoil in High Rock, and more about the living legend that was the woman standing on front of him.

"I do, traveling with company is always better than traveling alone," Jeyera replied, studying Alrik with interest in her eyes.

Axelia sidled up beside Alrik, creating more bodily contact than what seemed to be necessary, "Would you like to rest for a bit first?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Jeyera replied, suddenly looking tired.

"Come on then, no sense in hiking while you're exhausted, and you should rest as well Koorda," Axelia said with the air of scolding a small child. Both nodded and starting mounting the hill back to the camp, Brynja followed.

**Horec Frost-Axe, Dawnstar**

Horec tore another chunk of bread off of the entire loaf he had seized when he had strode into the hall. The fighting at the ridge had drained him, and he needed to get some food in his stomach. The Imperials had been driven westward, but Horec knew they would attack again soon.

Skald's steward strode past, giving Horec a bit of space. The Frost-Axe laughed quietly; apparently he was scary even when he wasn't fighting like an enraged bear.

The truth was, Horec didn't know the half of it. The man was massively built, his Nordic battle-axe looking like a toy in his hands. The well-made carved armor he wore only added to his bulk. His light brown hair was long, and his beard even longer. Horec inspired his men in battle, and more often than not won engagements single-handedly.

There was a burst of noise from the other room as Skald suddenly increased his voice in volume. Horec's fist clenched; he had no respect for such a foolish man. He treated everyone so roughly, so callously, and he thought that his people loved him, that they respected him.

From what Horec had seen, the people of Dawnstar looked to Brina Merilis for any sort of leader, and for good reason. The Legion had taught that woman discipline and given her an aura of command. She was more sensible as well, except for all her prattling about how Skyrim needed the Legion. Horec respected her highly, as he did with most of the Legionnaires he met, whether on the battlefield or otherwise.

But he loved and respected Skyrim even more. He loved its rich history, he loved its dips and peaks, its people, who, Nord or not, were slowly molded into stronger, hardier individuals. Horec didn't give a damn whether someone was Argonian, Dunmer, or a Redguard; if they acted with integrity they had earned his respect.

The racist load of crap Ulfric and his lackeys spouted was ridiculous, why would you want only Nords in Skyrim? The immigrants often brought new ideas, and many were prepared to work hard in their new home.

Of course, Horec had that one fear, one that many Nords had. The fear that one-day the number of foreigners would swell and suddenly Skyrim would be swamped, and would belong to the Nords no longer. Taken from its people by an offensive that required no weapons, and no death.

It was unlikely, but possible, and it terrified him.

Juric was talking with Skald, telling the Jarl that Ulfric had summoned him eastward and he would leave Tsannar War-Arm in charge of the Stormcloak forces on the border. Skald wasn't happy with this, telling Juric that he had wanted to lead the armies himself, and he also expressed concern about Gunnar War-Arm left alone at Dunstad.

Horec was concerned as well, Gunnar was adept in the ways of war, but he wasn't as good as his father yet. A strong Imperial offensive from the south could potentially cause trouble, and if Dunstad fell…

Now _that _would be a disaster, Dunstad was the only thing keeping the city of Dawnstar itself safe from an attack from the south and west. If the Pale fell, their designs to win the war would take a big step backwards. It would make the siege of Whiterun impossible.

Ulfric often said Balgruuf would yield, but Horec had met the man, and he was no coward. He might surrender his hold for the good of his people, but other than that, he would refuse to bow to Ulfric. Horec could understand; he could barely stomach even looking at the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric's greed was only too obvious; why else would he have slain the High King in such a duel, one that Ulfric knew he would win? Horec agreed with him about some things, such as the fact that the Empire shouldn't be in Skyrim at all.

Juric stormed back into the throne room, his muscular frame tense. Skald had apparently plucked a nerve, which was hard to do. Juric was one of the most patient Nords Horec had ever met.

Juric was built in similar lines as his brother, but Juric was taller and his hair was much darker.

"Back to Windhelm?" Horec asked gruffly, "Or somewhere else?"

"Windhelm, Ulfric wants a word with the both of us," Juric replied, brow knitted as he thought on something deeply.

"He probably wants to talk about Helgen," Horec growled, Ulfric had only returned from the doomed town a couple days ago.

They exited the hall, and walked towards two horses standing by the road. Usually, Juric and Horec made sure to walk with the rest of the soldiers under their command, but they had to get to Windhelm in a hurry.

"Sounds like fun, what did that old fool say that got your temper going?"

"Nothing he said could-"

"I've known you for too long Juric, don't pull that on me,"

Horec's friend sighed deeply as they climbed onto their sturdy horses.

"Skald said that if he doesn't lead the armies on the ridge, he won't support them at all," Juric growled as he flicked the reigns, anger present in every line on his face.

Horec was stunned, "That damnable fool! Does he not realize that will cost him his throne?"

"Apparently not, he's determined to let Tsannar and his men rot," Juric replied, fire in his dark blue eyes.

"This is only because the man hates Tsannar, and that is only because the man envies War-Arm, as he should," Horec said, adjusting the axe of frost on his back.

"Tsannar should be the Jarl, not Skald, the War-Arms were the holders of that title once, in a time beyond memory," Juric murmured, so quietly that Horec

barely heard him.

"How old is that clan?" The Frost-Axe asked.

"Tsannar claims he can trace his line all the way back to Atmora, and I for one believe him," Juric responded, rubbing at his thick sand colored beard that clung close to his skin.

Horec whistled, "I can only trace mine to the time of the first Empire," He glanced over at Juric, "How old is your family Juric?"

His friend became somber, and replied in a neutral tone, "I don't know Horec."

They rode in silence for a couple miles, and then Juric cleared his throat. Horec looked at his friend expectantly.

"You may have to ride southward, we need someone to put pressure on the Imperials at Neugrad before they get reinforcements from Cyrodiil," Juric said.

"Why would the Imperials risk more men in this war?" Horec growled, "Haven't they lost enough soldiers?"

"They know that if they lose Skyrim, they lose High Rock, and that's a loss they cannot afford," Juric replied as he rose slightly in the saddle, "Don't forget Horec, the Aldmeri Dominion is still the most dangerous force in Tamriel, and they're just waiting for the Empire to fall to its knees."

"Damn Elves, they don't belong in Skyrim," Horec growled, the Thalmor had proved especially annoying in the war so far. They were excellent at infiltration and deception, and so had penetrated Stormcloak lines far too many times for Horec's liking. Not to mention their favored habit of dragging Nords out of their homes.

The funny thing was, the Thalmor seemed to be hurting themselves more than the Stormcloaks. Many of the Stormcloaks had joined up as a result of the Thalmor's actions. The presence of the Elves was also a cause of spite towards the Empire, which swelled the Stormcloak ranks even further.

"Thankfully, the Thalmor don't seem to have much manpower," Juric said, "They don't appear like open combat much."

"After what happened at Heljarchen, I'm wouldn't be surprised if they withdrew completely," Horec replied, thinking back to the beautifully executed ambush in the beginning of the war that had resulted in about 20 dead Thalmor operatives, "Why did they even go for Heljarchen? That town isn't very important tactically,"

"They were looking for someone by the name of Delphine, a Breton," Juric replied, "There were orders on one of the bodies," He added hastily, seeing Horec's skeptical expression.

"She must be important to them, if they would risk so many resources to catch her," Horec said gruffly, but then a thought struck him, "Did you find her in the town itself?"

Juric snorted, "No, whoever she was, she was very good at subterfuge. We found a few traces, but never her. Our trackers found a trail leading southward, but it ran cold near Pinewatch,"

"What do you mean by "ran cold"," Horec asked, pondering on how a Breton could elude a good Nord tracker.

"What I mean is that our tracker crawled back to us with arrows to both of his knees, and we couldn't rediscover the trail after that,"

"Damn, and she probably got as far away from Falkreath Hold as possible,"

"That's what I thought as well, but at least she isn't a friend of the Thalmor, that was a kill order they had on her at Heljarchen,"

They rode for another mile before they finally caught sight of Tsannar.

He walked with a part of his army from Dunstad; those soldiers were tall, strong, and experienced with many fights in the southern Pale. They were clad in either Stormcloak steel Armor or Scaled with the roaring bear of Windhelm painted somewhere on the armor or with blue scraps of cloth tied on and left to flow in the wind. Their weapons were either plain steel or of the better Nordic make.

The Stormcloaks didn't have any real official garb, not yet anyways, each fighter made their own decision about what sort of armor they would wear, with steel and scaled being the most common sets found in the Stormcloak ranks.

It was the same with weaponry, but with a slight difference. Steel and Nordic were the only kind of weapons used in the Stormcloaks (with some exceptions) with either wooden or Nordic bows in the hands of archers.

Juric, Galmar, and Ulfric were all trying to make the Stormcloaks into a more cohesive force. Soon, it would be standard for a Stormcloak to either wear the heavier Stormcloak steel armor or the lighter Scaled armor.

Stormcloak steel armor was a hybrid of the Nordic plate armor and regular steel, it had the hard angles of the regular steel, but it covered more, and it was made with a healthy mixture of steel and corundum. It was also usually covered in cloth or animal skins to give it more of a Nordic touch.

The Scaled armor was exactly what it sounded like; pieces of metal that interlocked like scales on a fish. Beneath the metal was leather, and beneath that were padded linens. Scaled armor was meant for the archers and their more agile hand-to-hand fighters.

Nordic Carved armor was also present in the Stormcloak ranks, but it was reserved for generals, captains, and officers.

Tsannar came forward as Juric and Horec dismounted. Tsannar wore well-made Carved armor (as was the custom of the members of the nobler clans), and had a well-crafted Nordic greatsword strapped to his back. The man had white hair that he kept cut short. A massive scar went diagonally across his face, and one eye was milky. The man was tall, lean, tough as whipcord, and a clear leader of men.

"Good to see you Juric, and you Horec," Tsannar said as he scratched his chin, "How goes the fight in the north?"

"It went well, the Imperials have been pushed backwards into Hjaalmarch, but they still represent a serious threat to Dawnstar," Juric said, "And that's where we're going to need your experience and skill,"

"Good, I was getting bored in Dunstad, the Imperials don't dare approach it anymore," Tsannar replied, making a small gesture to one of his soldiers, a rather attractive woman with a shield on her back and a sword on her hip. She nodded and shouted orders to the rest of the column.

"And there's something you should know Tsannar," Juric said, his expression becoming grave.

"What? What has happened?" Tsannar asked, sounding alarmed.

"Nothing except Skald being a complete fool," Horec growled.

"What has the old man done now?" Tsannar sounded bemused now.

"He'll try to cause your defeat in the hopes he obtains the command of the army in the Pale," Juric said with an air of exhaustion.

"Cause a defeat how? Will he not send me supplies?" Tsannar queried, his voice starting to gain heat. Horec felt his wariness rise, Tsannar had a hell of a temper.

"Precisely, he'll see your army rot, but I can give you an order that Skald would be powerless to disobey, or we can set up a supply line that leads back to Windhelm," Juric replied.

"Maintaining a supply line all the way back to Windhelm would take too much manpower and resources. We are short on both, I'll need the order," Tsannar replied.

Juric handed over a folded piece of parchment, "There's no way he will be able to refuse that order, he would be defying Ulfric if he did,"

They chatted for a few minutes more, reminiscing about old times and old stories, and laughing whenever they stumbled over an old memory that amused the both of them. The both of them were old friends, after all.

To Horec, some of the stress that had been evident on Juric's face for the last week seemed to fade, and the laugh lines near his mouth and eyes only got deeper.

War-Arm cleared his throat, "I ought to be going Juric, if the Imperials catch the fact that you're not there…"

Juric nodded, "And I'm needed in Windhelm, Ulfric wants a word,"

"He probably wants to know how you plan to win the war," Tsannar said, grinning.

Juric's smile was convincing enough, but Horec could see the pain in Juric's eyes, "I wish I never had to use my skills in my own country, but the war must be won,"

Tsannar nodded and started to turn, but then he suddenly gripped Juric by the shoulder and spoke to him in a harsh whisper, "Juric, if you ever need us, any of us, to take Ulfric and his lackeys down, just say the word,"

"Tsannar, I hope it never comes to that, I wouldn't like to slay one of my own blood," Juric replied, his expression now very strained.

"I know, but you have me in Dunstad, Lukar Frost-Axe in Faldar's Tooth, and many of the Captains support you," Tsannar said, trying to be reassuring.

"That's enough Tsannar, lets not speak of this anymore," Juric replied with a steely voice.

Tsannar nodded, looking worried that he had crossed a line, "Yes my lord, I apologize if I was too reckless in my words,"

"It's fine Tsannar, don't worry yourself, we need you focused in the north,"

Tsannar nodded, "I agree, and I must be going, the Imperials might be rallying as we speak."

"Good luck, and don't die, we're going to need you for this war," Horec advised.

The War-Arm let out a short bark of laughter, "I'll do my best!"

Juric and Horec said their farewells and continued riding southward. Tsannar's small army faded into the north as they moved slowly towards Dawnstar.

Horec settled into the saddle contently, then spoke carelessly, as if he was talking about the weather, "You know Juric, he's not wrong."

"Enough Horec," Juric growled, "I tire of hearing about this."

Horec continued regardless, "Ulfric as High King would not be good for Skyrim," He looked over at Juric, "You know what he did at Markarth, and you know how he feels about everything else. He would have us at war with our neighbors, and killing any non-Nord in our lands."

Juric said nothing.

"You are the best option to become High King Juric. The people love you, the soldiers respect you, and your name is known all across Skyrim as the man who drove the Imperials out of Eastmarch and the Rift after Ulfric started the rebellion. Not to mention everyone knows how you set those Legionnaires free at Ivarstead when they surrendered-"

"Those men fought like kings, I could not see them killed in cold blood," Juric murmured softly

"-exactly Juric, and the people _love _you for that. They know you won't be a bloodthirsty king that will cause bloodshed and strife. They know you are the _right _king."

Judging from the pained look on Juric's face, he knew it as well, and he hated it.

**Surprise! Didn't expect Ulfric to have a brother didn't you? Okay, maybe you did, but I hope you're enjoying the twist. What will Juric do now? Will he stand by his brother, or will he kill him for the throne? And by the way, don't dismiss ****_any _****of the Blackmanes, they all have their roles to play: Dovahkiin, Jarl, Harbinger, Stormblade, High Queen, and the resurrected god, so don't underestimate them!**


	3. The Exile Thanes

**There is one thing I forgot to mention, this isn't an ****ordinary narrative, which is why the story has been so choppy (if the frequent viewpoint changes are bothering you, then don't worry, story will settle down soon). And one more thing, for those of you who thought Ulfric was being bashed, well, he was, but he's not some evil king the good guy has to kill, he has his own side in all this.**

**Big twist in this one, comment if you love it, comment it if you hate it.**

**Kodlak Whitemane, Jorrvaskr, Whiterun**

The Harbinger of the Companions was tired. Not from hunting down brigands or fighting worthy foes, but from walking from Dragonsreach back to Jorrvaskr.

He hated this, this weakness, the brittleness of muscle and bone. It was just another reminder of his age, of Sovngarde, and of the maddeningly distant solution that would get him there.

Kodlak sat in his quarters, talking with Vilkas about the affliction that affected him and the rest of the Circle: Lycanthropy.

"It is hard to resist the call of the blood," Vilkas droned, looking exhausted. He had just returned from hunting down vampires in the remote reaches of Winterhold.

"We must try Vilkas, Hircine's hunting grounds are not for us,"

"I know, but the strength of his influence is troubling."

"He is _Daedra_, Vilkas, but our gods are stronger. Remember that."

Whispered footsteps made their way down the hall, and even before whoever it was had entered the room Kodlak had spoken: "Do you need something Aela?"

The red-haired huntress entered the room somewhat sulkily, "How do you always know when I'm coming?"

"You have a very distinctive footstep," Vilkas muttered.

"Should I tie rocks to my feet and try to emulate you Vilkas?" Aela goaded.

"Do you need something Aela?" Kodlak repeated, interrupting the beginnings of what would have surely been an hour-long argument.

Aela turned to the Harbinger, "You have visitors Harbinger, six of them, and all armed like warriors."

Kodlak suddenly straightened, and rose, "Come with me, both of you."

A puzzled Aela and Vilkas followed Kodlak as he strode down the short hallway and up the stairs. He halted when he crested them, his aging eyes searching the massive room for the Blackmanes.

"They're in the yard," Aela said, looking in the direction of the doors.

Kodlak bellowed with laughter, "Of course they are!"

Skjor, who was seated nearby, looked up at this, "Are there new recruits Harbinger?"

"No Skjor, just old friends," Kodlak replied as he made his way towards the doors that led to the yard.

He saw all of them as soon as he opened the doors, and a great smile broke out upon his face.

Alrik and Rokar were practicing their skills on each other, their battle-axes moving quickly as they alternated between whacking with the blunt end of the axe and blocking with the sturdy handle. Brynja and Koorda were doing the same with their blades. Koorda's Nordic sword created silver blurs through the air as it rattled off of Brynja's shield; Brynja then lunged forward, crowding her twin with her shield and forcing her backwards. Gala fired arrows at the targets from across the yard, and Valkar leaned against a post sharpening his sword as he chatted with Farkas.

Kodlak approached slowly, not wanting to startle one of the duelers. Valkar saw him first, and shouted over to his siblings. Gala fired one last arrow and strode across to the target to retrieve her missiles. Koorda sheathed her sword with a flourish next to the spear Kodlak could see poking over her shoulder, Brynja slid her sword into the sheath on her back, and the others set their axes into their loops.

Valkar was the first to reach him, and the Harbinger noted he still looked the stolid and composed teenager he had known from so many years ago, "Kodlak father-friend," He said, inclining his head respectfully towards the Harbinger, "It is good to see you again."

Kodlak shook his head mournfully; "You are practically kin to me Valkar, why do you treat me with such formality?"

Valkar suddenly looked regretful, "Sorry Kodlak, I haven't seen you in a while,"

"Don't worry about it, it's never a harm to have a silver tongue," Kodlak replied as he turned to greet Brynja and Koorda.

The twins had grown up to be even more beautiful than they had been when they were teenagers. Koorda still had that mischievous look in her eye, and Brynja still had that brilliant smile that could warm a thousand winters. They both wore well made Carved Armor that looked it had more ebony in it than steel, Koorda bore a Nordic sword, spear, and shield on her back, and Brynja carried a strange sort of blade on her back and a bow was looped about her.

Kodlak found that his eye was drawn to the sword. It had a plain and practical hilt that was colored faded silver, and the pommel held a rune that seemed eerily familiar.

There was a sudden hiss of metal on leather; Brynja had followed Kodlak's gaze and was withdrawing her mysterious sword from its sheath. She wordlessly presented the sword so that Kodlak could see it clearly.

It was a rather short thing, looking barely three feet long, and the blade itself flowed in the likeness of the Nordic swords. The only unusual thing was the color; the metal was a blue so dark it very nearly looked black.

Kodlak raised his wonder filled gaze up to Brynja's solemn face, and he spoke, "What sort of blade is this?"

"It is a gift from my father, an old family heirloom apparently." Brynja replied, her expression telling Kodlak she knew much more than she was telling him.

Then he recognized the rune, and shock struck him like a lightning bolt.

"Brynja, do you know what weapon you are holding?" Kodlak asked slowly; he couldn't believe it. In Brynja's hands was a weapon as old as Wuuthrad.

"_Mermorde_, Elf-Bane." Brynja said, gazing upon the blade with reverence. She looked back up at Kodlak, "My father told me this was the sword of Ysgramor's son Yngol."

"And he's right, legend says that Ysgramor gave the sword to his other son Ylgar after Yngol died," Kodlak said, "Then it passed on to Harald, then Vrage, then Gellir, and finally Borgas, who was slain in Valenwood. From there, the trail of the sword goes cold, most assume it was lost in the country of the Bosmer."

"Our father had different ideas," Gala said, "He always thought the sword made its way into the hands of our ancestors during the War of Succession."

"And he was right of course; there are accounts of Jarl Fridis Blackmane wielding a blue sword when she led her armies to aid Olaf One-Eye in his assault on Windhelm," Koorda said as she removed her spear from its carrying loop, "And that's not the only relic we have."

Koorda held her Nordic spear in a manner so that Kodlak could see it clearly. He did not recognize it, and Koorda hastened to explain. "It is my mother's, forged in the Third Era."

The spear was very well crafted; it was a meter and a half in length with a solid foot of it being encompassed by the blade itself. The long haft was fashioned in the way of a battleaxe, and the blade was sharp and lethal.

Kodlak looked up and around at the Blackmanes, all leaning forward slightly, looking eager to discuss their family history.

_They're proud of their ancestry. _Kodlak realized, and he felt a surge of affection for his godchildren. Asulf and Nessif Blackmane had been two of his closest friends, and he had hoped that their children would grow up to resemble their parents. Obviously, his hopes were not in vain.

"Enough about the relics," Kodlak said suddenly, "Let's sit somewhere and talk, as I have not seen any of you in a long time."

The Blackmanes countenances brightened, and they looked eager. Apparently, talking is all they had wanted to do. They grabbed some seats and dragged them to the corner of the yard. They sat, and the Blackmanes looked at him expectantly. Evidently, they expected Kodlak to speak first.

"So what has happened since you wrote to me? All I know is that all of you managed to cross the border into Cyrodiil when the Thalmor starting hunting you in Bruma," Kodlak said, his brows drawn together.

His godchildren exchanged knowing glances, then Alrik cleared his throat, "It's a long story, and we don't have much time to reach Riften."

"Give me the short version then," Kodlak replied, leaning forward, "How did all of you get away from Bruma undetected?"

Gala blushed heavily and put her head in her hands to avoid the knowing grins of her siblings.

"Well, Gala here," Brynja started, giving her sister a dig with her elbow, "Decided to try and cause a diversion by releasing a herd of cows down the streets the Thalmor were watching."

"Not one of my best plans," Gala bemoaned through her hands.

"Certainly one of the foulest, didn't you give them some plant that gave them the runs?" Rokar asked as he tried not to laugh.

"She certainly did," Alrik said with a broad smile, "My favorite memory of that mess is still that one Thalmor mage that slipped and got a face full of cow crap."

Brynja and Koorda both snorted and started laughing hysterically. Koorda nearly rolled off her chair.

"I've never seen a High Elf so furious," Valkar remembered with a smile.

"So what then?" Kodlak asked.

"We managed to slip out of the city eventually, and through the Thalmor's net. From there, we each slipped north through the border in a different place," Gala explained.

"And then we managed to regroup in Riverwood," Alrik finished, looking uneasy, "I suspect the Thalmor are still looking for us."

"Hold, there is still one thing I do not understand," Kodlak interrupted, giving his godchildren scrutinizing looks, "Why did all of you leave Bruma in the first place?"

They gave him blank looks. It was Gala who answered: "The Thalmor were after us."

"But _why?"_ Kodlak pressed, looking from one face to another, "The Thalmor only started hunting all of you recently, why the sudden interest from them?"

There was silence, as their faces turned grim and bitter. Again, it was Gala who answered: "The prophecy."

He leaned forward, "The prophecy of the five? But that's impossible, the prophecy calls for five children, not six."

"The prophecy calls for five _births_ Kodlak," Gala said carefully, "And two of our number are twins."

"_There will be five comings of new legends, five new heroes that will change the fate of Skyrim, the first will save a hold, the second will save the world and lead old warriors into further honor, the third will win a thousand battles, the fourth will revive a god, and the fifth will slay the children of shadows_." Brynja recited suddenly, gripping her sword tightly. Her face was unreadable, "Those are the words our mother told us a week before the Dark Brotherhood struck by the orders of the Thalmor."

"We need to go home Kodlak, we need to go back to Riften and reclaim our birthright," Alrik growled, looking at Kodlak as if he expected him to try and stop the Blackmanes from moving any further.

"And you can't stop us from doing so," Rokar added, leaning forward as if he was ready to spring from his chair.

"I had no intention of stopping any of you, my only intention was to help you however I could," Kodlak replied stolidly, feeling surprised at the attitudes of his friends' children, "My only command is to be careful, Maven is crafty, and she has many friends."

"We will," Brynja assured him, "But we will have a few nasty surprises for Maven."

Kodlak allowed a wolf-like grin to spread across his face, "I'm sure you do Brynja, I'm sure you do."

**Freya Fireblade, Velothi Mountain Chain**

She slip-scrambled her way down the steep slope, causing her own small avalanche of loose shale and soil. She steadied herself at the bottom of the decline, and then bolted forward, wanting to put some distance in between her and the people that pursued her.

Freya squeezed through two jagged rocks and kept moving westward. She knew of a safe location in Eastmarch, a place the Dark Elves could never get to. However, just getting out of the highlands could be tricky; the Velothi Mountains were nothing more than a beguiling labyrinth of elevation pitches and loose shale. There were many places a person could get lost, but there were also many lost castles and treasure in this rugged landscape, making the reward worth the risk.

Freya continued to move through the dry streambed that cut through the rocks, keeping her hands raised as small lightning storms danced in her palms.

Magic had run in her family for hundreds of years, and Freya had dutifully followed in her parent's footsteps when she had become a battlemage. The main difference between a battlemage and an ordinary mage was that a battlemage could use steel effectively, and regular mages could not. The theory of the battlemage itself held the same concept as a warrior-mage hybrid.

Freya burst into a clearing, and halted as she tried to find familiar stars again. She couldn't use Clairvoyance, for that would give away her location, but she could not linger either.

She sensed power behind her and dove forward so that the fireball didn't slam into her back. Freya rose and turned quickly. Behind her stood one of the treasure hunters that had been hunting her all day. He hissed in anger when he saw his quarry, tall, strong, glittering with power, and still very much alive. He advanced further, a ward raised, and with fire crackling in his dark hand.

Freya waited until he cast another fireball at her; when the sizzling projectile flew forward, she dove again, and threw a throwing knife with wicked speed and accuracy.

The knife was made from ebony, so the hunter never saw it until it was buried in his chest. A few choked sounds flew from his mouth, and then he crumpled to the hard earth.

Freya grinned shamelessly. The best kind of fights didn't require magicka. She retrieved her knife, and was rising to leave when she heard movement all around her.

There were three of them, one of her countrymen and two Dark Elves. The Nord was a leering woman with a large battle-axe that was hovering inches above the earth. The Dark Elves were clearly mages; they were wrapped in black robes, and one held a staff in her hand.

"You have something that belongs to us wench," One of the Dark Elves hissed, his eyes narrowed at the woman in front of him, "Surrender."

"You want to surrender to me?" Freya asked quickly, "Very well, I accept."

"Do not be a fool," The other Elf hissed as her staff leveled at Freya, "Give us the Gem."

"And all the gold you found in there as well," The Nord growled.

Freya laughed, "You really can't expect me to just _give _you my valuables," She suddenly tossed a Gem from the inside of her robes, "But fine, take it, it's useless to me anyways."

It was a risky gamble. Freya was only betting solely on the stupidity of these three, and on how little they knew her.

But it worked. The male Dark Elf stepped forward to claim his prize, and his female companion joined him in ogling at the Gem. The Nord seemed to have no interest in a magical artifact, because she only moved towards Freya, probably to shake the battlemage free of the gold she had found in the old Dwemer fortress.

Freya spoke a word, a triggering of a magical trap.

The two Dark Elves heard it too late, and both were badly wounded by the explosion of ice the stone released. The Nord charged forward, but Freya was ready. Her bolt slammed into the charging warrior, throwing her lifeless body against the unforgiving rock of the mountains. Freya moved forward to the Elves. One tried to rise, but Freya hit him with chain lightning, finishing the both of them.

She picked up the staff and examined it. A substandard Staff of Destruction, not worth carrying all the way back home. She tossed it aside carelessly, and looked up at the sky yet again.

This time, Freya managed to find her stars, and she quickly moved westward. There was a convenient crack in the rock not ten meters away. It probably led to one of the many passes that wound their way through the mountains; Freya would have to be careful, trolls were known to haunt isolated mountain trails in search of goats.

Her caution was prophetic; as she mounted a small incline she heard the heavy shuffling, and as the breeze gently tickled her nose the foul odor of troll became noticeable. Freya called the fire forth; when the blue flames were percolating under her fingers, she moved forward.

It was a frost troll, and a big one. It had her by at least a half of a foot.

The breeze shifted, and the troll caught her scent.

It's foul head snapped up, and its four black eyes found Freya quickly. Then it started its bizarre stamping and arm waving. Freya focused, using both her hands to charge the spell, and then she released.

The troll was blasted backwards into the rock by the pure force of the fireball; she could hear it snarling as it struggled to rise to its feet. Freya wondered how the damn thing was still alive. That last spell had nearly drained her of all of her magicka.

She palmed her knives, and then whipped them across the trail and into the troll's skull. The foul thing twitched a bit more, and then lay still.

Freya reclaimed her knives, carved some fat off of the troll, and then moved westward along the trail. She managed to get through the rest of the trail with no further incident.

Freya crested a familiar mountain, and beheld all of Eastmarch in its swampy glory. She could see the walls of Windhelm, far to the north, and the highest towers of Mistwatch to the south; her home, Riverside, sat on the shore of the White River at the far western edge of the marshes.

She started down the steep switchbacks, her knees and feet protesting. The sky rumbled, and she looked up at the dark clouds worryingly. Rain was the last thing she needed.

**Juric Stormcloak, Windhelm**

Snow whipped around his head as he climbed the last few steps up to the Palace of the Kings. The guards straightened from their slumped postures and gave him salutes by the closed fist to their chests, a wonderfully Nordic gesture.

He strode past them, and into the Palace of the Kings.

The first thing he heard was Galmar, "-differences between Skald and Tsannar might end badly."

Ah, so they were talking about _that_.

Then Ulfric replied: "Then have Frorkmar take command, and send Tsannar back down to Dunstad."

"No, that cannot be done," Juric interrupted as he strode towards the throne, "Frorkmar could not fight such a large force on his own."

Ulfric looked down at his brother with a face of stone, "And War-Arm could face the Imperials' northern forces by himself?"

"Tsannar won't force Frorkmar to stay in Dawnstar," Juric replied, "He'll stand _by _Frorkmar on the field of battle."

"You mean coordinate with the man," Galmar said shortly; Juric nodded.

There was a long and heavy silence.

"Then it's settled," Ulfric rumbled, "Frorkmar and Tsannar will both lead their armies in the Pale."

"Is that why you called me down here?" Juric asked irritably. He could be leading troops instead of deciding on such a simple decision. He hated sitting in Windhelm.

Ulfric's fists tightened on the arm of his throne, "No, we have a war to plan, and you are going to have a part in it." It sounded like an order, not a privilege.

Galmar looked towards the door as if he expected someone to walk through, "Where's Horec?"

"In the Rift, he's going to march on Neugrad to cut off the supply line from Cyrodiil," Juric replied; he frowned at Ulfric's and Galmar's darkened expressions.

Ulfric rose from his throne, "Come Juric, let's go plan this war."

They strode into the war room, and took positions around the large map of Skyrim.

"You sent Horec to Falkreath?" Ulfric asked, his expression unreadable.

Juric nodded, a sickening feeling rising in his stomach, "Why do you ask Ulfric?"

Galmar snorted as he leaned over the map, "Because he'll be back within a week, Falkreath is too heavily defended to take now."

"Then we're stuck, Hjaalmarch is heavily defended as well," Juric growled, staring at the map in frustration.

"Whiterun still may yield," Ulfric muttered, staring at the hold.

"Like I've said Ulfric, Balgruuf will not yield his city," Juric argued, "He resents you far too much for that."

"I agree Ulfric, we should take action, and take Whiterun by force," Galmar growled.

Juric held up a cautionary hand, "Don't be quick Galmar, the battle for Whiterun could cost a great deal of lives."

"We are at war Juric," Galmar replied, "There will be blood."

"_Innocent _blood Galmar," Juric shot back with a healthy dose of venom, "People who never wanted this war. We never asked if they wanted their homes to be burnt to the ground."

"Enough!" Ulfric shouted, stopping the argument in its tracks, "This is pointless, we still do not have enough resources to take Whiterun."

"Then let's go around, we should take Falkreath before the Empire sends more men north," Juric said quickly, "If we fight smart, there's no reason we shouldn't expect a victory."

"And what will that accomplish? We would have gained nothing! The only result would be the further dispersion of more of our already limited armies!" Ulfric boomed.

"It would show people we have strength! That we can win this war!" Juric replied hotly, "And it might bring Hammerfell into this!"

"How can those dark-skins help us? They aren't Nords, we need Nords Juric," Ulfric growled.

Juric leaned forward so that his face was close to Ulfric's, "We do _not _need just Nords Ulfric, there are more than just Nords in our home," He snarled, his voice full of spite.

Ulfric's face contorted with anger, "You don't know, you don't know what it was like to return after the war…"

"_Enough_! What happened in the Great War has nothing to do with-"

"It has everything to do with it! The day the Empire signed that damn treaty-"

"You know that was necessary! You know that Ulfric!" Juric barked, "The Empire would've been destroyed, and we would have had to face the Dominion on our own!"

Ulfric's face was red and twisted, "You damn fool; we are Nords! We could have fought them off! How can you speak so roughly of your own kind?"

Juric's voice was deadly calm, "And how can you be so blind?"

They both stood, faces red and angry, glaring at each other.

"This changes nothing," Galmar rumbled, "We still need time to gather what resources we need," He was clearly trying to mediate between the two brothers.

Juric broke his death-stare and turned to the wall, expelling a breath in frustration, "The Imperials will still attack both the Pale and Eastmarch."

"Will they?" Ulfric replied, his voice still taut with anger.

"The Pale is their first step, and the Hold itself has a road that leads to Windhelm," Juric said lightly, "And if the Pale falls, then we've already lost."

"Then I hope Tsannar can hold it," Ulfric said, his tone indicating he didn't think highly of War-Arm.

"I hope Skald doesn't do anything foolish," Juric replied, his voice like steel across stone.

"He won't, unless I tell him to," Ulfric said carelessly, "The man may be a fool, but he's loyal."

To this, Juric had no reply. All across Skyrim, the Stormcloaks were divided, but united. United in their passion to remove the Empire from their homeland, but divided in their loyalties to Ulfric. A fair amount of Nords wanted Juric to be High King, and not Ulfric.

Ulfric represented the more extreme, nationalistic, nine divines worshiping Nord, and Juric represented the more moderate, nationalistic, supporter-of-the old-ways Nord (Juric had never met a Nord who wasn't at least a bit nationalistic).

The old pantheon had been making a comeback in recent years. There were now shrines to Kyne in Whiterun, shrines to Shor in Eastmarch, and a temple to Tsun on the edges of lake Honrich, in the Rift. The resurgence of the Old Ways had been another reason to cast the Empire out, since the Old Ways went hand in hand with the traditionalism that directly challenged Imperial culture. Most Nords were tired of the Empire forcing its culture into every facet of their lives. Juric had heard many Nords attest to it, and there had actually been riots in some Imperial-controlled holds.

The Jarls (or potential ones) were divided as well, some, like Dengeir of Stuhn and Laila Law-Giver, only supported Juric, some, like Sorli the Builder and Vignar Graymane, couldn't care less about which Stormcloak brother was King, and only two Jarls, Korir and Skald, supported Ulfric completely.

It was a schism that Ulfric was unaware of, so far. Juric's supporters were quiet about their intentions for who would be High King, for now.

When the war was won and the Moot came, the decision would be made. In that time, Ulfric would die. He would not let any challenge to his power stand; he had already demonstrated that with Torryg. Whenever Juric thought about killing his own brother, his stomach turned and his head swam.

Juric was no coward, and he was a warrior first and foremost. However, he would never let taking a life become easy for him, and taking the life of kin, by his standards, would only be done if it were _absolutely necessary_.

"Everything hinges on Whiterun," Ulfric muttered, "That hold is the key to this entire war."

Juric nodded, "We should try to take it as bloodlessly as possible."

"The city is fortified strongly Juric, and we know of no alternate entrances past its walls," Galmar replied, gripping the table, "It will have to be taken with engines of war."

"Then we will be careful," Juric consented, "But you're right Galmar, we still need time to build up our forces and prepare for this war. We've done much, but not quite enough yet."

"I thought we were ready a long time ago," Ulfric muttered.

There was a sobered silence, until Juric cleared his throat, "Are we done?"

"You might want to stay in Windhelm for a few days, we still have to plan this war. The Captains can hold the line for now," Ulfric replied.

It was frustrating; Juric wanted to be leading his soldiers, not directing them from Windhelm.

Juric sighed, "Fine."

**Koorda Blackmane, Bleak Falls Barrow**

They moved up through the relentless wind and snow, bending their backs as they hauled up the side of the mountain.

How they convinced Alrik to go through with this adventure was still a mystery in Koorda's mind. It had taken much cajoling and pleading on her part, but Koorda suspected the thing that had driven Alrik to agree was Axelia's insistence. She had placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and _advised _him to go, saying it would be good for him.

Begrudgingly, Alrik had agreed.

Koorda looked up through the swirling snow; she could see the tip of a tower through the blizzard. It couldn't be more than a hundred feet away.

Brynja was beside her; Koorda was back in her Carved Armor Brynja had kept safe for her when she had gone though Helgen; a very wise decision, in retrospect.

Jeyera wasn't coming with them on this little journey. The Breton had immediately left for Windhelm after she had paid her respects to the Jarl. Koorda was mystified, and a little disappointed. Even Valkar was coming, and he hated adventures like this.

Apparently, the lure of finding a Dragonstone was too much for him to resist. Valkar was an avid knowledge-hunter, and he was always determined to find the most hidden of secrets, wherever they may lie.

He was at the lead, right ahead of herself and Brynja. He was wrapped in his gear of robes and a hood. The robes were dark in tint, and were tight to his frame so they wouldn't impede him if he had to fight hand-to-hand.

The tower was now in sight, and Koorda could see movement within the structure. To her right, she could see Gala shrug her bow off her shoulders and nock an arrow on the string.

A Nord ghosted out of the icy wind, and stood with an axe in his hands, "Piss off, you don't belong here," He growled as he eyed them warily.

Koorda removed her spear from its carrying loop, Brynja drew her sword, Gala brought her bow back to full draw, Rokar, Alrik, and Axelia all readied their axes.

The Nord was now obviously nervous, he, apparently, wasn't quite the warrior to take on seven of his countrymen so heavily armed. Brynja smiled, and started to stride forward. The Nord suddenly surged forward, raising his axe to bring it down on her sister's head.

None of the Blackmanes moved, they knew what would happen.

Almost lazily, Brynja blocked the overhead strike with her shield, and ran the bandit through with her blue blade.

There were shouts of alarm from the tower, and Koorda raised her shield just in time to block an arrow. Gala answered by snapping off two shots that knocked the two shooters out of the tower as if they were rotten fruit falling from a tree.

Koorda moved towards the tower with Brynja right behind her. Gala followed with another arrow nocked. Another bandit in full iron armor rushed them, but was stopped in his tracks by Koorda's spear. Another well-aimed thrust finished him. They looted what they could, and Gala retrieved her arrows.

They continued up the mountain, peering up at the high arches of Bleak Falls Barrow.

Ahead of her, Koorda heard a soft exchanging of dialogue between Alrik and Axelia. This was the conversation of two loving individuals who couldn't bear to bring their feelings into play. After all, they were both warriors; their knowledge lay in skill with steel, and not the ways of love.

"Well," Alrik muttered, "That's a sight."

Axelia gave him a small smile, "I've never understood why we put such a flair on burying our dead."

"This barrow was built a long time ago, Axelia," Alrik replied, looking at her fondly, "The Nords back then liked building massive barrows like this."

Axelia wrinkled her nose as she looked up at the crumbling arches, "Seems impractical to me."

"Aye, to me as well," Alrik replied; his arm was brushing against his housecarl's.

Brynja rolled her eyes, and gave Koorda a small nudge, "We need to knock their heads together."

Koorda grinned wickedly, "Or we can just both give them an amulet of Mara and see what happens."

Brynja gave her sister a small shove, "You're horrible, that'll drive them both nuts," She smiled, "But it _does _sound fun."

"Then should we?"

"No, it's probably best if we let them work it out on their own."

"Sure, but they'll both be old and gray when they finally come to their senses."

"Eh, they'll be fine," Brynja replied.

They climbed the steps, halting when Alrik held up a cautioning hand.

"What is it?" Rokar asked, his axe already in hand.

He got his answer when four more bandits rushed down the steps, two of them carrying bows. Rokar bounded forward and felled one charging bandit with ease. The other melee fighter's attack was blocked by Axelia's stout shield, then Alrik's axe whistled in and finished the job.

The two archers had already been downed by Gala's sharp shooting. The Blackmanes moved forward again, climbing the ancient stone steps that led up to the massive doors. Alrik and Rokar both seized a ring and pulled so that the doors opened just enough for all to file through.

It was musty and dark inside, but there were fresh bodies lying by skeever corpses, and voices floated past the ruined columns. They all got low and moved forward with a healthy amount of caution.

"-but what if Arvel doesn't come back? I want my share from that claw!" It was a woman's voice, and a Nordic one.

"Just shut it and keep an eye out for trouble," A male, and another Nord by the sound of him.

Gala ghosted forward, slipping past columns and over rubble with nary a whisper of cloth against the worn pillars or a scrape of a boot on the battered stones. She had three of her black-feathered arrows ready, and she placed one on the string as she leaned around the final massive column between her and the fire. She whipped around the column and fired twice, and the voices stopped abruptly.

The other Blackmanes moved forward to the two dead bandits, and Valkar managed to crack open a chest that contained a good amount of loot.

They moved forward again.

"This place is creepy," Brynja muttered, "Do any of you remember the old stories we heard about tombs like these?"

"What, you mean the tales about the corpses that walked and fought grave robbers?" Rokar snorted, "Those were just figments Brynja, just stories."

Koorda looked uneasy, "I'm not so sure Rokar, I think they're real."

"Hardly," Rokar replied, "Probably made up by some bairn trying to scare his friends."

"Legends often have bases in fact, Rokar," Alrik said, gripping his battle-axe tightly, "We need to be careful."

Rokar said nothing, and proceeded to lead past several twisting corridors. Suddenly, there was a doorway ahead, with a bandit standing in the middle of the room beyond.

"Wait," Rokar cautioned, putting an arm in front of Gala, who had nocked an arrow, "Let's see what happens."

Now Koorda could see that the bandit was standing by a switch. He crouched as he pulled the metal contraption with all of his strength. Rokar made to dash forward, but quickly pulled backwards as darts flew out of concealed holes and killed the bandit in just a few shots.

"Poison," Valkar declared with distaste after the Blackmanes had moved forward, "All of these darts are poisoned. We had better not hit that switch."

Koorda, however, had noticed something else. There were correlating pillars of stone with carved images on them. There were three, wait, no, two to their left, and three on the higher walkway, these two that were up high seemed to be immovable. In contrast, the three on the bottom were on movable bases.

Brynja had noticed as well, she was running her hand over the carvings, deep in thought. Valkar was studying the immovable carvings, his head tilted back. Then he appeared to come to a conclusion and strode over to the carvings Brynja was caressing. He did something to the stone, and it spun until it landed on the correct image. Valkar repeated this for the second one, but paused on the third.

"Valkar," Brynja murmured, he turned, and Brynja mutely pointed at the third pillar that was half-buried in rubble.

"Ah, thank you Brynja." Valkar replied as he tapped the third pillar, "Now let's try the switch."

He said this last sentence loudly, and the rest of the small company turned and peered at him as if they thought he was crazed.

"Trust me, it won't shoot darts this time," Valkar said. They still looked doubtful.

Koorda released an exasperated sigh and strode towards the switch. She pulled it, and no darts flew forward.

"Good work Valkar, now let's go get that stone," Alrik said as he bounded to the open door. There was another chest in the room ahead, and Valkar cracked it open. Skeevers skittered up the stairs, much to Rokar's delight.

The vermin retreated after Rokar gleefully cleaved three in half with one swing, and more were slain by Koorda's spear and Gala's arrows.

They descended, and suddenly heard a pleading voice ahead. It had to be a Dark Elf, judging by the accent.

There was a wall of webbing, and they all looked at Valkar with expectation.

"What?" He asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

"Burn through it Valkar, we need you flex a bit of muscle. You know there's a Frostbite Spider in there. A big one, if the webbing is any indication," Alrik replied, looking mulish and uncompromising.

Valkar was silent, then he turned to face the web, vibrant flame was already washing around his fingers and up his arms. They gave him some space.

He took a breath, and extended his hands. It was a strong stream of red and blue fire, tightly controlled. The web stood no chance, and it soon burned away to nothing.

The Blackmanes stepped through, and sighted the whining Dark Elf, who's pleading only increased as the massive spider dropped to the floor and scrambled towards them with frightening speed.

Brynja was closest, and she braced to meet the onslaught, but there was no need.

Valkar was suddenly there, and Brynja quickly retreated.

He was completely awash in flame, rippling with a massive amount of power. His fury was easily conceivable as he gathered the power into two large fireballs he held tightly in each hand, and released with an enormous amount of magical recoil that the rest of the company could feel washing over them.

The spider stood no chance. It wasn't even thrown backwards; it was just completely reduced to ashes where it stood.

Of them all, it was Valkar who held the heaviest burden, and had the most strength. He was a magical powerhouse, and he gained almost none of it through learning. He hadn't had this power since birth, it had been unlocked when Valkar had been just a boy, when he had been jumped by a Frostbite Spider in the Rift and poisoned by its venomous fangs.

Instead of killing him, the venom, for some inexplicable reason, only unlocked his god-like magical abilities. The upper limits of his power had never been established. He was a master craftsman as well, able to forge enormously potent talismans that could last for millennia. He had, before they had left Bruma, re-forged all of their weapons to maximum strength and durability, layering them with one or two powerful enchantments that dealt terrifying effects.

He had even enough skill to supplement the metals and renew the ancient enchantment on Brynja's sword, Elf-Bane.

Valkar released a steady stream of weak flame on the web holding the Dark Elf as Alrik interrogated him. As soon as the Elf hit the ground, Alrik extended his hand, "Give me the claw Arvel, and we won't harm you."

Then the Elf was gone, sprinting down the corridor so fast that not even Valkar's magic nor Gala's arrows could catch him.

"Damn!" Axelia swore, staring down the corridor, "Shouldn't we be chasing him?"

"No, I have a feeling he's going to run into something much worse," Alrik murmured; his expression hardened, "Alright, let's go."

They moved down the next few hallways, straining their senses for any sign of movement.

Then they heard it. It was like the rasp of bone against stone, or the harsh scraping of dry paper against wood. It was bone chilling, and the company stopped the second they heard it.

"What the hell is that?" Koorda hissed.

Gala crept forward, and peered around the corner. Her face went white, and she shot her company an alarmingly fearful glance.

Goosebumps erupted upon Koorda's skin. Almost nothing scared any of them, and she'd only seen Gala this terrified when she'd been attacked by a wispmother when she was a teenager. Rokar stole up to Gala's side and looked into the room. The blood drained out of his face, and he absentmindedly grasped the handle of his battle-axe.

"The dead are walking," Gala reported when she went back to them, "These things are up and _walking_."

This declaration was met with disbelief and fear. How could they slay those who were already dead?

"Then I suppose I should burn them," Valkar said quietly as his hands ignited.

"Fire! That's their one weakness!" Gala said in her quietest whisper.

Suddenly, there was a strange sound that seemed to be a mix between a croak and a growl. Footsteps approached them rapidly. Axelia, Brynja, and Koorda all rose and rushed forward as urgency replaced their fears; their shields overlapped to form a wall of wood and steel. Rokar and Alrik moved into their positions without pause, their belligerent axes guarding the flanks of the shield wall, and Valkar and Gala both retreated behind the bulwark of shields, ready to unleash an onslaught of arrows and magic.

This took them little more than a couple of seconds. It was an exercise they had practiced intensely, and it now paid dividends as the draugr came around the corner. The archers were quickly blasted with fireballs and flaming arrows. The others kept coming, but their attacks rattled off the shields. They were quickly felled as the three women pushed forward, striking frighteningly strong blows. The men on the flanks also surged into the fight, cutting the draugr down like grass.

Valkar immolated the fallen draugr to make sure they didn't change their minds about being dead.

They found Arvel lying on the floor near the wall. He was already gone. His wounds were obviously made by the trap Gala had already spotted on the far side of the room. Alrik found the claw and his journal rather quickly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Koorda asked after Alrik had finished reading the contents of the journal aloud.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Alrik grunted, closing the journal and tossing it aside, "For now, it just looks like we have to keep moving forward."

They moved through several rooms and corridors, employing the same effective tactics upon every draugr they encountered. They looted, cracked chests open, and delved through passages that looked like they had been untouched for centuries.

All things considered, they were making good progress until they hit the Hall of Stories.

"Well damn," Alrik growled as he looked from the claw, to the incriminating keyhole, "This can't be as simple as it looks."

"It's a combination," Gala said firmly, pointing at the carvings on the different sections, "And if we get it wrong, we would probably get pelted with more darts."

Brynja tilted her head to the side, staring at the locked door in a curious fashion. Koorda watched her sister cautiously; she was unsure of what was provoking her sister to stare at the door with such intensity.

Brynja suddenly surged forward, snatching the claw from Alrik's hand and striding up to the door with a definite air of purpose. Her hand moved over the carvings so that they spun into a different combination than before. Brynja then mutely placed the claw into the keyhole.

Koorda cocked an eyebrow as the door fell. She didn't know how Brynja had figured that out. They followed her as she led the way through another corridor and into a massive chamber that actually had a creek running through it.

"Think our ancestors made this?" Axelia asked as she stared at the high ceiling of the massive cavern.

"Somehow I can't imagine people doing this with just some pickaxes," Alrik murmured in awe.

Koorda led as they climbed the stairs up to the summit. She immediately noticed a large structure to her right. It was a jagged and rough semi-circle that was smooth only on the inside edge, and there were curious carvings in the rock.

She squinted; it didn't look like anything she had ever seen before. It seemed to follow some sort of linguistic pattern, but she could not discern what that pattern could be.

Reluctantly, she dismissed it, and turned to join her siblings in gawking at the lonely coffin.

**Brynja, Bleak Falls Barrow**

Brynja had lingered to inspect a small dent on her shield. After she had run her thumb over it, and determined that it wasn't serious, she climbed the steps to rejoin the company.

When she crested the stairs, Brynja heard a myriad of whispers to her right.

Which was impossible, since the rest of the company was to her left.

She turned, and her vision darkened. She turned, and ancient words slipped into her consciousness. She turned, and an ancient power within her responded to the demanding summons.

Her vision dimmed even further as her eyes focused on glowing letters engraved onto the rock, _Fus_. Brynja started to stumble towards the glowing lines like a sleepwalker. Threads of light passed through her, enraptured her in light, and pulled her with a beckoning amount of pressure.

"Brynja!"

A voice? It sounded like Koorda, but Brynja could not be made to tear her attention from that one word, _Fus_. Someone gripped her arm and tugged, but she shook them off.

She now stood directly in front of the glowing word.

Suddenly, she understood, and the word embedded itself within her.

"Brynja…" Alrik started, looking completely lost for words. The rest of the company was gawking at her.

The cracking of the casket, and the emergence of the powerful draugr Deathlord interrupted their staring.

**I'm willing to bet that most of you thought Koorda was the Dragonborn, well, I DID warn you there was a twist coming. Another update soon.**


	4. Rise of the Dragonborn

**Myriam Gaelin, Near Cheve, High Rock**

The roar of the battle echoed off the rocks of the Wrothgarian Mountains. The forces of Daggerfall clashed with the Imperials and the few Orcish tribes who had allied themselves with the Empire. The Bretons' main battle line, sword-and-shield fighters, clashed against the Orcish juggernauts and supporting Imperial auxiliaries; Breton mages were firing large magic fireballs that smashed against the Imperial line, but the Imperials were replying with massive showers of arrows. It was becoming bloody for both sides as they wavered back and forth as the battle shifted this way and that.

Myriam watched, and worried. She worried for the battle, for their war, and for her sister dutifully fostering an ally in a land of ice and snow. Jeyera had left more than a month ago for Cyrodiil, and Myriam hadn't heard from her since.

She couldn't afford this, Myriam wasn't the most important military officer Jeanne had under her command, but she was still critical to the Bretons' war effort. She and several other officers stood upon a high and bare hillock that oversaw the countryside. Myriam could see the entire battle from here, and could easily give orders, thanks to the swift scouts that Jeanne had recruited from Cheve.

Scouts weren't the only people Jeanne had recruited from the small mining town. There was cavalry under the command of Medruch and Alain Gaelin, her two brothers, riding through the passes to crush the Imperial's northern flank. Her father and mother, Clovis and Maelle, were further north, fighting a fierce battle to defend Shornhelm, which had recently switched sides.

The Gaelin family was one of Jeanne's staunchest supporters, they had been one of the first to desert the Imperials, and they had been the first to cross through the gates of Camlorn after the city surrendered. Her father was one of the Queen's most trusted advisors, Maelle was a general, and Medruch, Alain, and Myriam were all officers. Their home, a rather small city by the name of Orleah that lay between Daggerfall and Camlorn, was also one of the first settlements to support Jeanne as High Queen.

There was a shift in the battle below; a wedge of fierce Orc warriors had driven into the Breton center, an action that nearly cut the army in half.

Myriam moved quickly, "Henri! Gather your men and reinforce the main army!"

Henri De Mete, the well-built, dark-haired noble from Camlorn, had seen the danger as well.

He mounted his horse, "I hope your brothers hurry Myriam! We wont be able to hold off Ghorho's warriors for long!"

"Just a bit longer Henri, that's all they'll need! Now go, quickly!" Myriam replied, looking back at the battle with a great amount of concern.

De Mete set spurs to his horse, and he was down the hill in a flash. In the battle below, Ghorho's flying wedge continued to push forward, and the Breton army as a whole started to fall back.

Which only exposed the Imperial rear to the pass they thought was secure.

Below, Henri's division, and the army's last reserve, threw themselves into the fight. The formidable fighters of Camlorn managed to blunt the wedge of attacking Orcs, and slow the Breton withdrawal.

Myriam could tell it wouldn't last; the Orcs were already counterattacking to win back the initiative.

To the north, Myriam saw something that made her heart sink. About 50 Imperial cavalry riding from the pass that Alain and Medruch were supposed to be emerging from. Had her brothers been discovered and routed in the Pass?

With a fair amount of dismay, she started to turn and order a retreat.

But then she heard the horns, and her heart sang.

She recognized them immediately as Alain's and Medruch's horns. Their rich notes flew out upon the battlefield, startling the Imperials. The Bretons pressed forward, buffeting their enemies with their shields, and striking strong blows with blade and mace. Myriam could see her brothers now, riding down the pass at the head of about 200 mounted knights and mages.

The Imperials started to retreat immediately, the auxiliaries covering the Orcs' retreat as the Breton line surged forward with De Mete's division in the lead. The tiny force of Imperial cavalry, which must've been what was left of a force that had been sent to intercept her brothers, held position at the mouth of the Pass.

The Imperials blatantly fled to their camps at the other end of the valley with the Bretons close behind. The knights now neared the mouth of the Pass, and the Imperials holding there quickly broke ranks and fled.

Myriam felt ecstatic, the Imperials were routing! She moved over to her horse and swung onto the saddle. Her aides looked at her, the question clear in their eyes.

"Let's go," Myriam said, and she spurred her horse forward.

As she descended the hill, things went from bad to worse for the Imperials. The Breton cavalry caught up to and cut the Imperial horsemen to pieces. They then went for the rest of the army, which was conducting a desperate fighting retreat back to the far side of the valley.

Horns sounded in the Imperial camps as their reserves emerged and tried to assist their failing infantry.

They were too late, the vanguard of the Breton knights smashed into the Orcs' with Alain and Medruch in the lead, and the flanks drove into the auxiliaries on the wings of the Imperial force. The auxiliaries, made up mostly of loyalists and Imperials, broke almost instantly. The Orcs' kept their discipline as they continued to fall back, but they were under intense pressure.

It looked like a wholesale slaughter by the time Myriam descended the hill and rode forward. The Bretons were assailing the Imperials with hoof and fist, and it only intensified as the Imperial reserves threw themselves into it.

The Breton infantry was exhausted, however, and the cavalry wasn't much better. As Myriam watched, Henri, Alain, and Medruch all ordered disengagement by a signal flag. The Imperials understood what the signal meant, and they took the chance to scamper behind the wooden walls of Loreux Redoubt, pursued by the magical projectiles of the mages and the deadly arrows of the archers.

The Bretons withdrew to the center of the valley to regroup, and it was there that Myriam was with her army again.

She still wore her armor; a shining mix of corundum and steel, her helmet sitting crookedly on her saddle pommel. Her gleaming black hair was tied back and her dark eyes sparkled as the soldiers cheered when she approached.

Alain, lean, brown-haired, and looking very noble in his burnished armor, rode to her with a smile on his face. Medruch was built in similar lines, with black hair like her own; he trailed behind his brother.

"We've won, there's no way they can hold the Redoubt with so few soldiers," Alain said triumphantly.

"How many did they have left?" Myriam asked.

"They couldn't have had more than a hundred soldiers left," Alain replied.

Myriam raised her eyebrows, speechless; the Imperials had numbered at about 300 when the battle began.

"We have to press them in the morning, we can't let them regroup, The Orcs from Sus Khorbad and Azulber still have not arrived," Medruch said as his horse trotted up to them.

"Speaking of Orcs, what happened to Ghorho?" Myriam asked; Ghorho was a very influential chief, and if he was dead, then it meant that many Orcs would not fight against Jeanne's cause.

Medruch frowned, "I don't know, I think he managed to escape into the redoubt."

"Damn, that's bad news," Myriam said, "That means the Imperials might get reinforcements during the night."

"No, the Orcs of Azulber and Sus Khorbad aren't going to bother us," Henri said as he rode forward into the conversation.

"And how would you know that?" Myriam asked; she hated it when De Mete spoke so cryptically. It annoyed her to no end.

"Because they are too busy fighting the Orcs of Kugush," Henri answered with a humorless smile.

"Why would Chief Borhaugr help us?" Alain asked, squinting at Henri suspiciously.

"Because he owes me a favor, and I just called it in," De Mete laughed, "I saved his life once, a long time ago."

Myriam watched De Mete with a fair amount of mistrust. When the war had begun, the entire De Mete family had supported the Empire, only for them to switch sides after Jeanne's main army arrived at Camlorn's gates. A few members of the family had left the city to join the Imperials, and Myriam feared that the rest of the family was waiting for a chance to foul up the war.

Henri met her doubtful glance steadily. His eyes were a very dark blue, his hair long, and his face had fine bones. Henri was not an ugly man, not by a long shot, but Myriam still didn't trust him. The sweetest honey could mask the most bitter of poisons.

**Brynja Blackmane, Brittleshin Pass**

"Hold on, magical ward," Valkar said as he held a hand aloft in warning. The rest of the company halted as he disabled the magical trap.

Brynja felt different, changed. That wall had done something to her. She felt as if there was a powerful tempest within her; a vibrant power that shifted this way and that.

After they had taken down the Draugr Deathlord, the rest of the company had swarmed Brynja, asking her if she was all right, checking her for wounds. Brynja had told them there was no pain, and all she had felt was a strange feeling. She could tell that they didn't believe her. Instead of walking with Alrik, as was her custom, Axelia walked close to Brynja, and Koorda kept even closer than she did before. The others simply looked upon her with a fair amount of concern.

Valkar straightened, and wiped his brow, "Let's go," He said.

They moved forward and down a spiraling wooden walkway. Skeletons came forward, eager to spill blood, but the company broke them to pieces easily.

"Necromancy," Valkar spat, casting one of the bones aside disdainfully.

"There's no telling how many, we should proceed carefully," Alrik reasoned.

_Cautious as always. _Brynja thought idly, but then she felt a pang of sympathy for her brother. He had been unceremoniously handed an entire clan to lead, and a very distinguished clan at that. The pressure upon him must be immense.

"Hey, I just remembered something," Gala started, her nose wrinkled in concentration. The rest of the company perked up; when Gala said something like that, there was always more useful information to come.

"Wasn't Lucan Valerius that store keeper that we visited a couple times in Riverwood?"

"He was," Alrik realized, "Do you think we'll get a reward if we return it to him?"

"Probably, should we do it?" Gala asked.

Alrik hesitated, "No, that would only delay us further, exploring the Barrow held us back enough."

"Alrik, be realistic, one of us could easily take the claw back to Riverwood, and then be back by the time the rest of the group departs Whiterun," Axelia chided quietly, frowning at him.

"We cannot chance it," Alrik growled, "We must reclaim our heritage."

"And we will do so Alrik,"Koorda said, "But returning the claw is the right thing to do."

"I will take it, it will take me no longer than half a day," Axelia pronounced, looking at Alrik pointedly.

"You should hurry then, going back through the pass and traveling eastward along the lakeshore would be the fastest way," Alrik said as he held the claw out to her. Axelia took it, her fingers lingering on his calloused hand.

"I'll be back," She assured him; her voice was different, a bit heavy with emotion.

Brynja couldn't read Alrik's expression, "I'm counting on it," He said softly.

They watched as Axelia turned and jogged back towards the southern entrance of Brittleshin Pass.

"Let's go," Alrik said gruffly, and he turned to enter a large room.

"Alrik! Duck!" Valkar shouted. Alrik threw himself backwards just in time to avoid the ice spike that crashed into the blank stone of the wall behind him. Valkar dashed forward, raising a magical shield that turned aside another ice spike. Gala was right behind him with two arrows nocked onto her bow.

Brynja took a few steps forward, her shield raised and her sword readied.

However, there was no need, Gala quickly sighted the necromancer and fired two shots; one that wounded him, one that finished him off.

"Thanks Val, you saved my hide again," Alrik said as he rose.

Valkar smirked, "It isn't hard to do."

"Bah, someday, Valkar, you'll owe me such a big favor…" Alrik tried to scowl, but a smile quickly overpowered it.

They looted a chest, and then walked down a series of steps and another ramp. Ahead, they could see three pedestals with soul gems mounted upon them.

"Another trap," Valkar grumbled, "Don't worry, I can handle this." He walked confidently, his ward absorbing the ice spikes the gems flung at him. When he reached each pedestal, Valkar merely took each gem, and the flow of magical attacks stopped.

Her brother waved them forward when he seized the last gem, and their progress resumed.

"When do we get out of this hole?" Rokar growled, just as Brynja saw the light of an exit. They emerged on the tundra of western Whiterun hold with the Northern Lights sparkling overhead.

"Beautiful, I had almost forgotten what they had looked like," Gala said, looking up at the sky with reverence.

"Let's go," Alrik said gruffly, "The Lights aren't going to disappear."

The stars twinkled above them as they walked quickly to the east. Whiterun was visible; it's spires stretching into the night sky as it dominated the landscape.

Brynja yawned, feeling exhaustion starting to settle onto her shoulders. A glance at her siblings revealed their encroaching fatigue.

"Alrik," She called, he turned, eyebrows raised, "We should make camp for the night."

Alrik looked like he was going to protest, but then he noticed the tiredness of the entire company, and he himself seemed to be weary. He consented, and the Blackmanes unrolled canvas and encamped close to the pass. Valkar took the first watch. He wrapped himself in his cloak and moved to the perimeter of the small camp. Brynja stooped as she walked into the single large tent they had pieced together. Gala and Rokar had already shucked off their armor and were fast asleep in their bedrolls. Koorda was pulling the last pieces of armor off her; she kept the clothes she wore under the armor on. That was standard for them all.

Alrik was nowhere to be seen.

"Where has Alrik gone off to?" Brynja asked.

Koorda only shrugged, "I don't know, he says he went to take a leak,"

Brynja frowned, and left the tent.

She found Alrik standing on a rock that faced towards the east, towards Riften.

"Alrik, you should be in bed," Brynja chided.

"Brynja, I need to know something," Alrik said, his voice was heavy, and subdued, "Two things, actually."

"What is it?" Brynja asked gently. There was something wrong, usually; Alrik was cool, stolid, and confident. Hearing him like this, with traces of doubt in his voice, was very worrying.

"Do I lead well?" He asked.

Seriously? He had to ask that? He was a great leader, and clever one.

"Alrik the only reason we've gotten this far is because of _you_, if father hadn't made you the leader, then _I _would've been leading the clan, and you know how well that would've turned out."

Alrik smiled faintly.

"Honestly can you imagine any of us doing a good a job as you?"

Alrik mutely shook his head.

"Now, what about the other thing?" Brynja asked, curious as to what it was.

"It's about… a woman."

Brynja grinned widely, "Axelia?"

Alrik gave her a look, "How did you know?"

She laughed softly, "Alrik, you're not a subtle person."

He looked startled, "So she knows that I-"

"No, no, she's as hopeless as you are."

"You mean that she…"

"Shor's bones Alrik! How have you not noticed?"

"I always thought that she would see that as a breach of duty; a housecarl romancing her master."

"She does see it as a breach of duty, but only because she believes her feelings are unrequited." Brynja said with a smile, "What about you Alrik? Do you see it as a breach of duty?"

"I'm not sure," Alrik muttered, his eyes trained on the horizon, "I'll have more time to think on it when we reach Riften."

"What, you already thinking of marrying her?"

Alrik was startled, "What? No, at least, not yet."

"Alrik, you might as well just have a heart to heart with her."

"Later, we still have too much to focus on."

"I _will _tell her if you don't."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

Alrik sighed, "Alright, I'll talk to her when we see her in Whiterun."

Brynja gave him a small push, "No you won't, you turn into a giant chicken when it comes to women."

Alrik looked affronted, "I do not."

"Don't you remember Kisre?"

"She was holding a battle-axe, of course I got a bit nervous."

"Alaya?"

"I swallowed my mead wrong."

Brynja laughed quietly, "You're not good with romance Alrik, but neither is Axelia. The two of you are a good match."

"So you really think I should just tell her?"

"We are Nords Alrik. The most direct way is the best."

"You're right," Alrik muttered, he suddenly looked exhausted, "We ought to go to bed."

Brynja nodded, feeling the fatigue grow in her bones. Together they stumbled towards the tent and entered quietly. The others were asleep and wrapped up in their bedrolls. Brother and sister removed their armor and slithered into their respective rolls of sheets.

"'Night Brynja," Alrik mumbled.

"Goodnight Alrik," Brynja replied as sleep took her.

Brynja awoke twice, once when she took the third watch, and another time when Rokar shook her awake in the morning.

They set out early, and without any delay. They wanted to reach Whiterun as soon as possible. The group soon came upon the westernmost watchtower and marched past several farms before they reached the most distant fortifications. They came upon the gatehouse, and the guards only gave them an emphatic nod before cracking the gates open.

Even early in the morning, Whiterun was bustling with activity. The vendors were setting up shop, and people ran about trying to knock out a few chores before breakfast.

"I don't know how people could even bear to get up at this hour," Gala said as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

They walked through the market and past the Gildergreen. They started up the stairs that led all the way to Dragonsreach.

"Why'd they have to make the palace so high?" Gala gasped, staring up at the spires of Dragonsreach despairingly.

"I thought you were supposed to be the ranger of the group," Rokar grumbled, "And why are you complaining, you're not in _armor_."

"It still sucks to climb stairs Rokar," Gala growled.

Eventually, they made it to the top and paused to catch their breath. Then they moved into the building itself.

Balgruuf was not in his chair, but the Blackmanes heard conversation from where Farengar Secret-Fire usually worked. Koorda took the Dragonstone into her hands, and turned the corner. The hushed conversation stuttered, and then stopped.

The conversation was between Farengar and a Breton who wore a cowl to conceal her face. The company approached, and Farengar grinned widely.

"Ah, the company from Bleak Falls Barrow! Seems that you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way!"

The Breton left with a muttered, "Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it."

Brynja's eyes followed the Breton as she furtively strode from the room. Their eyes met, and different shades of blue clashed. It only lasted a moment, and then the Breton strode away. Brynja's gaze followed, studying the retreating figure intensely. There was something about that woman that caught Brynja's attention.

"So will this help the dragon problem?" Koorda asked anxiously.

Farengar only shrugged, "It will help me in establishing a pattern, and that, may by the first step to stopping the dragons."

"Farengar!" Irileth's voice quickly gained volume as she suddenly appeared at the entrance to the room, "Farengar, you need to come at once! A dragon has been sighted nearby!"

Farengar nearly sprinted forward, "A dragon! Where was it seen, and what was it doing!" His voice was eager; it was the tone of some excited scholar who had clearly not seen combat.

Irileth beckoned to the Blackmane company, and they followed when she turned on her heel and strode upwards, farther into the palace.

"I would take this more seriously if I were you," Irileth admonished, "If a dragon _does _attack Whiterun," She paused, and delivered the next words with a visible amount of labor, "I'm not sure if we can stop it."

Before they knew it, they stood in front of Jarl Balgruuf as the guard gave his report.

On their earlier visit, Balgruuf had struck Brynja as sensible and unshakeable. He proved he was worthy of these labels yet again. Balgruuf calmly listened to the scouts report, and then quickly dispatched Irileth. He then requested Koorda's help, but his words also implied that he expected Brynja and the rest of the Blackmanes to remain in Dragonsreach.

Fat chance.

"Jarl Balgruuf, if Koorda goes out to fight a dragon, then we must follow," Alrik said firmly, stepping up to Koorda's side and fastening a heavy glare at the Jarl of Whiterun

Balgruuf matched the glare, but it seemed to Brynja that the Jarl was only curious. He spoke dangerously, "It is not wise to disobey the order of the Jarl."

"It is not wise to separate a Nord from his family either," Alrik replied.

Brynja was struck. Alrik seemed to have grown in stature, and his eyes were as stars before the sunrise. Above his head, the air coalesced until it formed a crown that sat neatly on his brow.

Then Brynja blinked, and the vision faded.

Balgruuf suddenly smiled, "No, it is not. You have my full permission to go with your sister, and a blessing. I have not seen such a noble clan in a long while, Alrik son of Asulf."

They all were taken aback, and it was Koorda who asked the obvious: "You knew our-?"

"Father, yes, I knew him, and I am glad to see that he begot such noble children," Balgruuf finished, smiling faintly, "Now go, all of you, and return with your own heads, and the head of that damn dragon."

They went gladly, but also reluctantly. They never knew of any Jarls that knew their father, but thanks to this heavy matter on their minds, they reached the Western Watchtower before they knew it.

"Well, he's definitely been here," Irileth growled, looking out at the burning grass and damaged tower. She moved from out behind the boulder, looking about warily, "Let's go, but keep your eyes open."

They all moved forward with a fair amount of caution, but when Irileth went to the tower to check of there were any survivors, a terrified Nord popped out the front door like a yellow clad jack-in-the-box.

"No, get back! Run!" He cried, after he saw how the housecarl of the Jarl and so many had come, "It's still here somewhere, it just grabbed Hroki and Tor when they made a run for it!"

Brynja suddenly got a tingling in her spine, and completely on an impulse she shouted, "It's coming!"

Sure enough, a red dragon was spotted by Gala as it swooped down like some giant hellbird swooping from the mountains.

Irileth saw it as well, "Here it comes! Get to cover, and make every arrow count!"

The dragon roared, and a name came to Brynja as if it was a memory she had forgotten long ago, _Mirmulnir._ Slowly, Brynja drew Elf-bane from over her shoulder.

The dragon was circling overhead, and now the outpour of arrows began from the beleaguered people on the ground. Gala was an especially deadly shot, as usual, and the dragon actually vomited a few fireballs at her to knock her out. Thankfully, Gala saw the danger and dove behind some masonry. She was dazed, but unhurt.

The dragon now went on the attack, crushing one guard, roasting another, and diving at the attackers. He also went after Irileth after she hit him with a lightning bolt. Her natural resistance to fire was the only thing that saved her life, but she was still knocked out cold. Two guards quickly dragged her behind some masonry.

Their numbers were dwindling quickly. Mirmulnir now landed on the road, and slew three more guards. A messenger was sent out to Whiterun to request aid, but the dragon saw him running away.

They weren't going to receive any help.

The dragon returned, he drove Rokar backwards when her brother assaulted him and killed four more guards. They gained respite as the dragon simply backed up and released fire over the rubble the last few defenders were hiding in.

Brynja ducked down even further, clutching her bow in a white-knuckle grip as flames washed over her cover. Koorda was beside her. Valkar dashed by, a ward raised and bolts flashing from an open hand.

Alrik found them after firing at the dragon, "We need to get out of here!"

"No!" Brynja shouted back as she released another arrow, "If we flee we'll die anyways!"

"It's the only-" He shouted a curse as he dove behind more masonry to avoid another fireball. It was a massive explosion of soil and stone.

"Alrik!" Brynja shouted. She couldn't see him, but then her brother sat up, coughing as he shook off the fine layer of dust.

There was another roar, and the dragon bounded forward. Valkar was now forced back as the dragon snapped at him. Koorda suddenly darted forward, stabbing the dragon in the face with her spear.

Brynja also ran forward, drawing her sword.

She was too slow, the dragon snapped at Koorda, knocking her shield and spear away and landing her on her back. The foul thing then drew itself up, and prepared to roast Brynja's sister.

Valkar suddenly nailed the dragon with two more bolts, and countless arrows were still flying. Mirmulnir was distracted long enough for Brynja to get in front of Koorda and slash the dragon across its jaw. Unfortunately, Valkar had just been blasted away while Brynja had dashed in front of Koorda. Behind her, Brynja could hear war cries as her siblings ran to aid her, but it was far too late.

"_Yol…_"

Koorda screamed, "Brynja!"

**Koorda Blackmane, Western Watchtower**

"Brynja!" She shrieked as the dragon blew fire.

The flames completely enveloped her sister, framing her silhouette perfectly. Grief, sudden and brutal, tore through her as she realized that her sister had been reduced to ash.

But then the flames cleared, and Brynja stood unharmed.

Koorda's jaw dropped. Her sister should be dead, but yet, she stood, fearless in front of the dragon. She looked to be completely relaxed, her sword and shield low.

Brynja now seemed to be taller, her sharp features sharper, and about her was a red aura, as if the air had solidified and taken on the color of blood.

She moved, striking harder and faster than Koorda had ever seen her strike before. The dragon recoiled, and fell back. He roared again, but this sounded less fierce, and more dismayed. Brynja walked forward grimly, shield high and sword low.

The dragon enveloped Brynja in flame again, but she was, yet again, unharmed. Her sword flashed again, two streaks of blue that both struck the dragon brutally. The great beast flinched audibly, and crawled backwards, releasing yet another gout of flame. It had no effect.

Brynja advanced forward through the flame, and Koorda felt as if she was watching a battle of the gods.

Her sister struck once, twice, thrice more, and the dragon's head was quickly becoming a bloody mass. Then Brynja swung up onto the dragon's head and clung to one of its horns as she continued to slash and cut ferociously.

Finally, Brynja pounced upon the dragon's head, gripped one horn, and used her sword to deal three deadly strikes that spelled the end for the scaly animal.

Clear as day, Koorda heard a dismayed scream. _Dragonborn, no!_

Brynja leapt clear as the dragon began to spasm wildly, and Koorda had to remind herself to breathe when the foul beast finally lay still.

She staggered up beside her doughty sister, and gasped, "How in Shor's name did you do that?"

Brynja turned, and Koorda recoiled in horror. Usually, Brynja's eyes were a beautiful sky-style shade of blue, but now they were a sinister red, with reptilian slits stabbing through the pupils.

Again, Koorda felt as if she was looking upon a goddess.

Then her eyes cleared, and Brynja staggered. Koorda caught her, throwing her weight against Brynja to keep her upright. In front of them, the dragon crackled and started to burn away. Then light flowed from the corpse into Brynja with such force that it pushed Koorda away.

Now, Brynja was able to stand on her own power. The light faded, and Brynja lurched as if she was going to be ill, but then she straightened again, and released a burst of power. "_Fus!" _the shout ripped through the dirt and upturned stones, and Koorda felt the recoil of power wash over her.

When they had all been little, their father had told them of Nords in the older times. He had spoken of warriors who had naught but their voices. How they could command beasts and blow down buildings, and how they slew dragons. Those ancient terrors, the oppressive beasts.

He had called these people, Dragonborn.

"I don't believe it!" One of the remaining guards said as he gawked at Brynja, "You're… Dragonborn."

Unbelievable, now the prophecy was making sense. The second line, "_second will save the world"_. Brynja was Dragonborn, an ancient hero that was prophesied to slay the worst enemies of the Nords.

Brynja was starting to look uncomfortable with so many gawking at her. Koorda approached and threw an arm about her sister's shoulders and began to walk her away.

The rest of the family fell in behind with Irileth and the rest of the guards staring after them; Rokar was supporting Gala, as she still looked faint.

They were halfway to Whiterun when thunder boomed and a great voice rang from the mountains.

"_Dovahkiin!" _


	5. Of Bears

**Sorry for the delay, life tends to get in the way of writing. Short chapter this time, and there's things I did not address with the last update.**

**First of all, yes, I'm bringing the old Nordic pantheon back, and yes, it's going to eventually replace the worship of the nine/eight Divines. And yes, I do understand that the Dragon blood is a gift from Akatosh, and yes, I do realize that many Nordic gods are "dead". Or are they? **

**Jeyera Gaelin, Kynesgrove**

Jeyera groaned as she roused herself. She had reached Kynesgrove late in the night after traveling hard all day. She sat up in the furs drowsily, and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Reaching Windhelm was crucial; she had to get to either Ulfric or Juric.

When she had left High Rock, the forces of Jeanne had been struggling to keep pushing after the forces of Orleah had gone over to Jeanne along with the Gaelin family, so Jeyera was extremely anxious to help the cause however she could. When Jeanne had asked her to take this mission, assisting the Stormcloaks and sealing an alliance with them after the war was won, she had accepted instantly.

Jeyera carefully put on her armor, piece by piece, and grabbed her enchanted blade.

She and a few of High Rock's best rangers and agents had slipped into Cyrodiil, planning to journey to Bruma and then go northward to Helgen. The plan had been going smoothly until the unthinkable happened.

One of their people turned traitor.

The Thalmor had been tipped off, and Jeyera's company was caught in an ambush just north of Bruma. Jeyera had barely survived, and she had been left alone to complete her mission. She had journeyed northward towards Helgen, planning to quietly slip through the border.

Then things had changed. She had learned that General Tullius had taken Ulfric Stormcloak by surprise and hauled him to Helgen to be executed. Jeyera had feared that with the loss of Ulfric, the Rebellion would be badly destabilized and vulnerable. She had adjusted her plans. The new version had her freeing Ulfric and assassinating Tullius.

Instead, she was captured along with the Stormcloaks.

Jeyera exited her room, and nodded politely to the innkeeper. She then exited the inn to behold the bustling town of Kynesgrove. As she stood on the porch, Kjeld, the man who spoke for Kynesgrove, walked by, talking casually to one of his older sons and a captain of the local guard. Another squad of guards, wearing leather and chain mail, followed on their daily patrol. From what Jeyera had seen, the small mining town was very prosperous. The presence of one of the very, very few Malachite and Moonstone mines was a huge pull factor, and not to mention the many farms that fed both the town itself and shipped produce northward to Windhelm.

Jeyera headed to the northern section of the town, adjusting her pack as she passed the temple to Kyne that lay near the northern entrance. A Nord man in ornate armor who held his helmet under an arm guarded the door to the temple.

She left through the northern entrance, and set off to the north. She could already see the tallest spires of Windhelm.

The temperature only got colder as she walked, and within thirty minutes snowflakes starting floating pass her. Jeyera yanked some additional furs out of her pack and shrugged them on.

Her mind wandered back to High Rock and the war, the war that had begun so simply.

It had all begun barely a year after the Great War had ended. The Empire had levied new taxes; obviously expecting the Bretons to help pay for the war the Empire had just lost. It had caused a small amount of disorder, but not enough to start a rebellion.

But then the Thalmor had come. Their main rationale was to further cement both their influence in High Rock and to keep an eye on the region.

The Bretons fiercely resented the High Elves, and the Thalmor returned the feeling. Worse was to come, the Thalmor, upon discovering that the Bretons revered some of their Elvish gods, took it as their mission to eradicate these "heretics" who worshipped Phynaster, Y'ffre, and Magnus along with the Eight Divines. The Bretons resisted this fiercely, and word soon went throughout High Rock that the Thalmor were now enemies.

It came to a head in a small village by the name of Yetrin. Two small Thalmor companies swooped down on the place and razed it to the ground, killing most of the townsfolk and tearing down the temple. Only a few survived, but they spread the word, and it spread like a wildfire.

Rebellion flared, and one very particular man would step up to help lead it.

Jeanne's father, a fearless sorcerer and warrior by the name of Ralais Faucon, who quickly rose in the ranks when he destroyed a Thalmor outpost and slew their ambassador to High Rock.

The Empire had been quick to take sides with the Thalmor and worked with the High Elves to smash the rebellion.

It would last for ten long years. The rebels, who were soon called the Maquis, achieved only limited success, their goal was to capture Wayrest and seize control of the entire province. They succeeded in taking Camlorn, Evermor, and Shornhelm, all in the first year of the insurrection. Further success in battle at the southern coastal fortress of Losous indicated a takeover of Wayrest.

But in the second year, Camlorn fell to Imperial forces coming from Daggerfall, and Orc-bolstered armies smashed the rebellion's main force at Losous.

In the third year, Ralais managed to take Northpoint, but one of the leaders of the rebellion, Pierrey De Sein, was trapped at Evermor when the city was besieged. A month later, the gates failed, and De Sein was slain in battle.

In the fourth and fifth year the fighting only increased. The Maquis won as many as they lost, but their numbers were decreasing. Ralais had led his armies this way and that, trying to shove the Imperials back.

In the sixth year, the rebellion lost another influential leader, and Shornhelm was besieged. At this point, half of the Maquis faded into the forests to fight as guerillas, and the other half, led by Ralais, would keep fighting to defend Northpoint, gather their resources, and then also fade to become guerillas.

It all went wrong. When Ralais marched northward to regroup with what Maquis remained in Northpoint after Shornhelm fell, the city defected to the Imperials, and the traitors slew every Maquis fighter they could find.

Jeanne's father was forced to make a fortified camp to face the Imperial armies that were coming from the south. He held that fortress for 7 months before the gates fell. Ralais was slain, and his head was sent back to Wayrest.

The Imperials foolishly believed the rebellion was over, and they lowered their guard.

But Jeanne, at that time only 17 years of age, had survived the defeat of her father's army. Late in the seventh year of the rebellion, she led a crack team of rangers right into the gates of Wayrest and took her father's remains. When the Imperials went in pursuit, they blundered into an array of traps and ambushes set by Jeanne.

She retreated to the west and linked up with more Maquis. The Imperials roused their armies again and requested the help of the Thalmor. The two forces met at Cauter's Ford, and Jeanne won, against all odds, pushing the Imperial armies back towards Wayrest. This victory made Jeanne a known figure throughout High Rock, and cemented Ralais's status as a martyr.

In the beginning of the eighth year Jeanne beat the Imperial forces back to the gates of Wayrest, but was soon forced back to the west when reinforcements arrived. Further fighting took place in the north and west, with only limited Maquis action in the eastern portion of High Rock.

The last two years of the rebellion were low key, as Jeanne had faded into the wilderness and the rest of the rebel armies only made limited engagements.

The rebellion ultimately ended when the rebels faded completely. They either melted back into society or stayed in the wilderness to continue fighting. Things calmed, and but High Rock braced itself for another war. Armor was collected, swords forged, arrows fletched, and the Maquis planned where they would strike next.

Jeyera beheld the massive bridge across the Yorgrim River that lead directly to Windhelm, silently musing on the skill of the ancient Nords. She descended the small hillock, and shivered as the cold from the stone went right through her boots.

_How do they stand this? _Jeyera wondered, seeing a guard who kept his arms uncovered. She was used to the warm, dry climes of High Rock. Not this freezing land.

She was halfway across the bridge when a Nord in rags sneered at her.

"What are you doing here half-elf?"

And then from her left, another growled, moving forward as he did so.

"Get away from our city, you don't belong here."

Jeyera drew her sword in a flash, facing the brute walking forward. He was dressed in normal clothes, and didn't seem to be armed, but Jeyera was taking no chances. He scowled, and drew a small dagger, but he was obviously wary of the glittering blade Jeyera held.

"Rolf, Angrenor, get the hell away from her!" Boomed a towering Nord who strode up from behind Jeyera, causing the Breton to jump a few feet in the air.

The Nord was massively built; wearing burnished Stormcloak steel, with a greatsword strapped to his back. His eyes were dark, and his hair light. Two more Nords wearing Stormcloak leather were behind him with bows in their hands.

Angrenor and Rolf glared at the Stormcloak Captain, which was the only thing Jeyera could think that her supporter could be, then the two men slunk towards the city, grumbling.

The Nord turned towards her, and inclined his head in a gesture of respect, "Lady Gaelin, I am sorry for the trouble."

Jeyera's eyes widened, and she reached for her shield, "How do you know my name?" She demanded.

The Nord held up a cautioning hand, "We mean no harm, we are Stormblades, in the service of Juric Stormcloak. We are here to take you to him."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Freydis shadowed you all the way from Kynesgrove," He replied, gesturing to one of the Stormblades behind him, a lithe woman with wild golden hair.

Jeyera snorted, "No one followed me, I am sure of that."

Freydis raised an eyebrow, "Not even when you took the higher trail rather than the road after you left Kynesgrove?"

Jeyera said nothing, only glaring at the Nord tracker. She was getting soft, if she had allowed herself to be followed so easily.

"Peace, both of you." The Captain said, "My name is Jorkmar, and this is Tuor," He said evenly, gesturing first to himself and then to the third Nord who stood with a hand on his sword. Tuor was a handsome fellow, light brown hair, clear blue eyes, and with a lean build.

"How did you even know I was in Eastmarch?" Jeyera demanded, and then she promptly released how stupid of a question that was. She corrected herself hastily, looking at Freydis, "Oh, right, did you have your tracker waiting at the pass?"

Freydis shook her head, "No, Tuor spotted you at Valtheim, and I followed you from Kynesgrove."

Jeyera looked at Tuor incredulously, "I was moving fast, _very _fast. You managed to beat me to Windhelm as well?"

Tuor smiled, "Actually, Freydis and I got here the same time you did."

Freydis piped up as well, "We reported straight to Jorkmar."

Jeyera was impressed; she was a hardened veteran with plenty of marching experience. Evidently, these two were the same. The fact that Tuor had gone so far and stood in front of her now, calm and not looking fatigued in the slightest, was only proof in his ability.

Jorkmar now spoke up, "Alright, Gaelin, I ought to be taking you to Juric now," He turned to Tuor and Freydis, "The two of you can head over to Candlehearth for rest and drink."

They both nodded gratefully, and walked away, their heavy strides revealing their exhaustion.

"Some of the best, those two are," Jorkmar rumbled as he walked towards the city with Jeyera trailing, "There's barely anyone I trust more to a mission."

Ahead of them, Tuor pulled Freydis in closely to his side.

Jeyera raised an eyebrow; soldiers were known to become lovers.

""As the eagle finds its mate…"" Jorkmar recited, noticing Jeyera's face, "They're married."

"What?" Jeyera said in surprise.

"They married young, in the Reach, gained experience fighting the Forsworn, but when the Thalmor started hunting them they fled east, and joined up with us," Jorkmar explained as they approached the gates.

"They fought Forsworn? Good on them," Jeyera said approvingly.

"No sympathy for Reachmen?" Jorkmar asked curiously, not contemptuously.

"They receive no sympathy from my people," Jeyera deadpanned.

Then they entered the city itself. Candlehearth Hall was immediately visible; the massive building dominated the city entrance. Further on, Jeyera could see the roof of the palace.

A scene caught their attention, near the doors to Candlehearth the two same men from outside, Rolf and Angrenor, were harassing a Dunmer woman. Their stances were threatening, their leers worrying.

Jorkmar withdrew his greatsword from its sheath on his back, "Damn the both of you! Begone! How dare you disgrace our people with your bullying!"

The two men snarled, "Go stick your sword somewhere else, I'm a Stormcloak." Angrenor snarled.

Jorkmar sneered, "You throw that title away when you act like a coward, threatening those without blades."

"These savages need no blades to kill Jorkmar, you should know that," Rolf growled.

"I don't give a damn what they kill with, the both of you go elsewhere. Drink yourselves into a hole, for all I care," The Stormblade captain growled.

The two brutes backed off and went into Candlehearth. The Dark Elf gave Jorkmar a grateful nod.

He ignored her and gestured for Jeyera to follow as he moved forward.

"What was that about?" She asked.

"Most Nords in Windhelm don't care for outsiders, especially the Elves."

"Do you…?"

Jorkmar snorted, "I don't care for Elves, and I don't care for Imperials."

"Oh?" Jeyera said, now curious, "You don't care for either? Not even your fellow man?"

Jorkmar gave her a steady look, his intelligent eyes boring into her face, "I only resent the Imperials who tell my people how to live, and Jeyera, please, the Elves have been the enemy of the Nords for all of my people's history," His brow wrinkled, "And how can you not loathe them? The Thalmor started the war in your land, they hate your people."

Jeyera stopped and rounded on him, "How do you know that," She hissed, her eyes flashing with rage.

He regarded her calmly, "The Stormblades know much Jeyera, and the war in High Rock is not airtight. There is a steady trickle of information coming from the Maquis to our hidden camps in Haafingar," He turned and continued towards the Palace, now only thirty feet away.

He was stopped when Jeyera grabbed his arm in a hard grip with power humming through her fingers, "You have news from High Rock?" Her eyes were desperate, "What is happening?"

"The last report we received was that Camlorn had surrendered and that the Maquis were pushing towards Wayrest and Shornhelm," Jorkmar said, "And that report came in about a month ago."

Jeyera was breathless, "Camlorn surrendered…"

Jorkmar began walking towards the palace again, she followed.

"How goes the war here?" She asked.

"It is only just beginning. As we speak Horec Frost-Axe leads an army against the Imperials based in Neugrad, and Tsannar War-Arm battles the enemy in the Pale."

"Are the Imperials going to move any more armies northward through Falkreath?"

"Hard to say, they have the Thalmor to the south. They cannot spare any more resources in Skyrim or High Rock, not currently at least."

They were now at the doors, Jeyera glanced at Jorkmar, "How do the Stormblades know all this?"

"We have our ways."

She grudgingly accepted his answer, and then they entered the palace itself.

The throne that sat high on the other side of the room, and it was empty. She casted her eyes about, looking for one of the Stormcloak brothers.

"Jorkmar," A man called, he was gray, and wrapped in a bearskin. His age was easily discernable by his deep lines.

Jorkmar inclined his head in respect, "Galmar, is Juric here?"

The man he called Galmar nodded, "He is in the war room planning with Ulfric."

"So, he's arguing with Ulfric in the war room," Jorkmar said dryly.

The other man nodded, "Yes, it would a good time to introduce…" He gave Jeyera an appraising look, "… your friend here."

Jorkmar nodded, he touched Jeyera's arm lightly, "Come, the war room is this way."

Jeyera could soon hear the words of both brothers.

"Damn it Juric, do you not realize how much danger that would put our armies in?"

"Do you not realize that we will lose support if we simply allow the Imperials to occupy the southern Pale?" Juric's voice was more pleasant than his brother's, even though the man sounded furious.

"What will support mean if we lose all of our men? What will it mean if we expose Dunstad and Fellhammer to the Imperials?"

"Ulfric, the Imperials are only operating from limited camps in Whiterun hold. They do not have the strength to take the Iron Pass. They would not dare to try."

"I wouldn't call the army the Imperials have at Valtheim limited. What if they march north?"

"They won't, they're only purpose is to keep our force in Amol from overrunning Valtheim and gaining a point of vantage in the approach to Whiterun."

"Good thing we have that camp behind there, that would be a tough place to besiege."

"Not really, a few catapults could knock it down."

"Then why in the hell did you establish that camp?"

"To take Valtheim without delay. If we were to take Whiterun, we would have to move fast before Imperial reinforcements."

Ulfric made a sound of frustration, "I'm beginning to question your judgment,"

Juric's reply was made of ice, "Why would that be?"

Jeyera moved to the shadow of the doorway so that she could see both brothers. Both were clad in black and leaning over the table. That's where the similarities ended. Juric's hair was much darker than Ulfric's, and he was bulkier, taller as well.

"Horec will fail in the south, and the Imperials might come against our forces in the Pale stronger than we thought,"

Juric snarled, "Horec will not fail."

"And so far, your mystery half-elf hasn't shown. I guess she considered us a lost cause?"

Her hackles rose at the words _half-_elf. Jeyera had heard enough, she stepped from the shadows, "Not completely Ulfric, though with the scorn, I'm tempted to reconsider." She turned to Juric, "You knew I was coming? How?"

Juric smiled slightly, "A lucky guess," He studied her like a blueprint, and she could see respect in his blue eyes.

_Well, I think I'm starting to warm to him already. _He reminded her of Jeanne, they both held themselves in the same fashion, with quiet dignity and power. He also seemed, oddly, a man of peace, Jeyera had a difficult time picturing him on a battlefield.

Ulfric scowled, "Well, Gaelin, it seems you survived Helgen."

"So did you," Jeyera replied, allowing a bit of disappointment into her voice.

Ulfric crossed his arms over his chest, "So why are you here then Gaelin? Why were you in Helgen?"

"To negotiate," She shot back.

Juric was leaning against the table, looking calm and cool, "An alliance Ulfric, she's here to negotiate an alliance."

"Between Skyrim and High Rock," Jeyera replied.

"Why would I approve?" Ulfric said, his voice and face made of ice, sharp and jagged.

"Use your damn head Ulfric, why shouldn't we have an alliance between us and High Rock?" Juric asked, obviously very irritated.

"Skyrim stands alone." Ulfric spat, his hand on his sword.

Juric's eyes blazed with anger, he slammed his fist onto the table, "And would you see Skyrim burned and ruined because of your damned pride?"

Ulfric's blade was suddenly in his hands, as if he had plucked it from the air, "Do not press me Juric!"

Juric had drawn his blade as well, "Or what!" He shouted, "You'll kill me like you did Torryg?"

They stood; both brothers were blazing with anger. Jeyera thought they just might try to kill each other, but then Ulfric slammed his sword back in his sheath and stormed from the room. Juric sheathed his blade and leaned against the table, looking seriously strained.

"I'm sorry that you had to witness that," Juric said, "We haven't been on the best of terms lately."

"Obviously," Jeyera snorted, "I've seen worse."

"Right, so you ready to negotiate?"

Jeyera raised her eyebrows, "Ulfric didn't want to-"

Juric let go a bark of laughter, "I don't answer to him, and Skyrim will never stand alone, not without allies to aid her."

"Let's negotiate then."


End file.
